


Strange Allies, Stark Lives

by ganvogh



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Canon Rewrite, Cloak of Levitation (Marvel), Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No character bashing, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Science Bros, Slow Burn, Spoilers, but not character forgiving either, hurt!Tony, hurt!stephen, rated higher for Maw's torture, semi-graphic torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-04-30 22:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14506707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ganvogh/pseuds/ganvogh
Summary: Stephen Strange thought himself to be quite intuitive when it came to predicting things, even without using the mystic arts. Things rarely surprised him on account of generally being ready for most situations.So really, meeting Tony Stark again, a man he knew from his days of sports cars and expensive champagne, really shouldn't have been that much of a surprise.A fix-it/re-write of Infinity War, with more of a focus on character interaction.





	1. Chapter 1

Stephen Strange thought himself to be quite intuitive when it came to predicting things, even without using the mystic arts. Things rarely surprised him on account of generally being ready for most situations.   
  
Like today, he would go to the deli, he would pick up lunch for both himself and Wong (on the account of the latter having no money), and spend the rest of the day reading or observing potential cosmic threats.   
  
Which is why, when something crashes straight through his skylight, he is fully prepared for it being the latest inter-dimensional freak of the week.   
What he was not expecting, was a very afraid and almost entirely  _naked_  Bruce Banner, breathless and eyes glowing an unnatural green.   
  
Thanos. He’s here, the scientist-turned-strongest-avenger informs them, as if this is expected to mean something to them.  
  
“Who?” he asks, looking at Wong to see if the man held any further information. The Asian simply stares back at him for a moment, before returning his gaze to the ruined staircase, magic still summoned around his hands.  
The doctor offers his own hand to the man, who takes it graciously, albeit hesitantly.  
  
“The Mad Titan. The Destroyer of Worlds.” He lists the titles, making Stephen wonder if this being was more a case of bad news, or a bad ego trip.   
  
Asgard had fallen, the Tesseract crushed and its stone taken. Loki was dead, Thor most likely was too.   
The doctor feels a pang at this, remembering his brief time with both sons of Odin. He had spent hours restoring all the glass and objects the Asgardian had broken while calling his ‘umbrella’ through a house of ancient and priceless artefacts. In his defence, the sorcerer had been a little on the cheeky side with him, allowing his brother to freefall through dimensions for thirty minutes, and forcing the Prince to body-roll down the stairs while teleporting him.  
  
“He has the space stone?” Wong asks from beside him, concern not at all concealed from his expression.  
  
“And the power stone. He destroyed Xandar for it.”  
  
The two sorcerers draw in breath sharply. He may not have heard of Thanos, but the amulet around his neck wasn’t exactly just there to accessorise.   
If someone was collecting them, that placed both him, as the keeper of the time stone, and Vision, the bearer of the mind stone, in direct danger. Not to mention he was likely to burn the very Earth they stood on to ashes in an attempt to obtain them.  
  
“How do we stop him?” Stephen asked, already knowing the man couldn’t possibly have an answer for it.  
  
“I need to see Tony Stark.” The smaller scientist said, a kind of smouldering green fire in his eyes backing up the words.  
  
He nodded silently. That could be arranged.  


* * *

He finds Tony Stark in his tower outfitted for people who no longer lived there.   
  
He looks around in his astral form before opening the portal, observing and gathering information before meeting the man himself.   
  
The flooring is a smooth charcoal slate, the walls looked as though they had been carved from wood and stone. It was sparsely decorated, its only focal point being the large and expensively-stocked bar that sat across from an open traditional fireplace. It was beautiful, yet impersonal. 

It reminded him of his old home, his old life, before everything had changed.   
  
The Iron Man himself stands facing out onto his city, from windows that reach from ceiling to floor. He holds a half-full cup of coffee in his hands, dressed in a black lycra long-sleeved t-shirt and faded navy jeans. A light on his chest shines through the material, although Stephen doesn’t know what purpose it serves.   
He has read many things about Mr. Stark, seen him at charity balls and galas what seems like a lifetime ago, yet nothing from that matches the image of the man he sees before him.   
A man who looks beaten down by the world, dark circles pestering the skin underneath his chestnut-brown eyes, gripping his coffee like it’s the last means to anchor himself to reality.   
  
Not a feeling the sorcerer himself was unfamiliar with.  
  
He decides he has allowed himself to see far too much already, a man like Stark was unlikely to appreciate an unwelcome observation.   
He makes a point of creating noise as he draws energy to his sling-ring to create the portal, a courtesy to allow the billionaire to compose himself before the meeting.  
  
“Tony Stark, I presume?” he leads with, which gains him a rapidly forming repulsor aimed in his direction, the man in question disturbingly ready for any kind of surprise.   
The sorcerer wasn’t entirely expecting one of his infamous suits to  _materialise from his body_ , which forced him to keep his composure steady despite his growing concern.  
  
“I’m Doctor Stephen Strange. I’m going to need you to come with me.” He says, not-so-secretly enjoying the kind of dramatic flair his powers and fluttering cloak added to an introduction.  
  
“I’m sorry, are you handing out tickets to something?” he says, immediately on the defence.   
  
The sorcerer briefly considers, and not for the first time, creating a different outfit if only people would stop with these horrendous magician jokes.   
  
Stephen gives him it anyway. Five years ago, he probably would have reacted the same if a levitating man showed up out of a portal of glowing golden sparks in the middle of his living room.  
  
“We need your help.” He tries again, holding his gloved hands up in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that the very fate of the universe could be at stake here.”  
  
The man before him visibly relaxes, although not by much. His hand is still carefully raised, trained on the doctor’s body for the slightest hint of trouble. “Yeah?” he says, more of a statement than a question. “Who’s we?” his tone was threatening, edging closer to using the weapon on his arm.   
  
Thankfully, Bruce Banner chose this moment to finish his conversation, stepping through into the tower like he was coming home after a long day.   
  
The change in Stark’s behaviour was almost as comical as it was sad. The armoured hand was immediately gone as he made quick strides over to the other scientist, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.   
“ _Bruce_?” he questioned, as though he didn’t quite believe he was there, placing his hands on the other’s arms.  
  
“Hey, Tony.” He smiled weakly, before pulling the billionaire in for an embrace.  
  
As he understood it, the Hulk had been missing for quite a while now. He nodded to Tony, whose eyes were still carefully trained on him, before leaving them both to have their brief catch-up. He trusted that Bruce would convince the other man to make his way through the portal back to the sanctum.  


* * *

They explain the infinity stones. Six stones imbued with the very essence of the universe, granting those strong enough to wield them power over each aspect. Tony watches with rapt attention as he reveals his own stone safely sealed within the Eye of Agamotto. 

“Tell me his name again.” He says from the sofa, a question aimed at Bruce.

“ _Thanos._ ” The scientist replies, fear evident in his voice. “The attack on New York, Loki and his sceptre, the  _portal_ -” and Tony winces ever so slightly at this, so slightly that Strange wouldn’t have caught it were he not observing him so closely. “That was all him.”

“This is it…” Tony whispers to himself, nodding as if it were something he expected, something he knew well, causing Stephen to furrow his brow.   
What was  _it_? Did he hide some unnatural clairvoyant power within him that allowed him to see such events?  
  
“What’s our timeline?” and the sorcerer has to admire his straight-to-business attitude. But they don’t have a timeline, not when they’re coming up against potentially one of the most powerful entities out there at the moment.  
He walks over to the cauldron, places his hands on it as if to steady himself.  
  
“Stark, if he manages to obtain those remaining stones… He could destroy life on a scale hitherto undreamt of."

He begins stretching his leg, leaning on what might be one of the most valuable magical objects on earth.   
"Did you seriously just say hitherto undreamt of?" he takes his jab, the first of many to come no doubt. His smirk held no malice though, and Stephen starts to wonder if it’s just his way of testing what kind of person someone is.

"Are you seriously leaning on the Cauldron of the Cosmos?" he fires back, the Cloak of Levitation reaching out to slap his hands away before he can do it himself. He isn’t sure which reaction he’s seeing from Tony then, a mix of disbelief, irritation, amusement, even curiosity.  
  
“I thought you were a wizard, not a witch. You’re telling me you make potions in this thing?” he peers into it again, but is careful not to touch this time. Sentient cloaks tend to have that effect on people.  
  
“Sorcerer.” He sighs as he corrects him, hardly in the mood to be playing this game at this time. “Not exactly. It allows me to see into the past.”  
  
“Huh.” He’s silent for a while, Wong and Bruce still continuing the conversation off to the side of them. “Just see?” he asks, nonchalant, but still interested.  
  
“Just see. Altering the timeline is forbidden, a violation of the natural law.” Strange says, predicting the scoff before it even leaves Stark’s mouth.   
  
“Do all of you have broomsticks up your ass like that?”  
  
“Tony.” Bruce says, a warning and admonishment wrapped in one. To the sorcerer’s surprise, he backs down upon hearing it. He hadn’t predicted the two were close, but they seemed to hold a mutual trust within the other.   
  
“Vision is out there with the mind stone. We know where the time stone is. But we’re going to need all the help we can for this. We may be the only people left who can stop this.” He says softly, and Stephen can feel the tension radiating from Stark the moment the prospect of calling the other Avengers comes up.  
  
“Bruce, I-” Stark begins, and Strange knows, about the fate of the Avengers, about the group fractioning and going their separate ways. He knows they were freed from prison, and he knows the military likely thinks it was Tony’s doing.  
“It’s not that easy.” He says it as though he wishes it were, pulls out a flip-phone carefully like it might burn his hands.  
  
And somehow Bruce understands then, as though he can read the events from Tony’s actions.  
  
“Let me, then.” He says, extending his hand towards the billionaire as though he wants to take his burden as well as the phone. Tony holds it a while longer, before depositing it into the scientist’s outstretched hand. Banner smiles, although it seems more of a grimace, and Strange points the way to the library to allow his conversation with Steve Rogers to go uninterrupted.   
  
He’s left alone with Stark once Wong retreats to Kamar-Taj to search through ancient writings for anything that might help them. He sits down in his armchair, waving his cloak away and leaving Tony alone to his thoughts. He’s curious about what demons the great Tony Stark is keeping bottled up in there, but he won’t invade the other man’s privacy to satiate it.  
  
“Coffee?” he asks instead, knowing the worst place for a man to be held prisoner was within his own mind.  
  
“Black.” Stark agrees, barely even blinking when it appears in his hand. He wanders over, stroking fingers over the spines of old books, face illuminated by the light of the fireplace.  
  
“How does one of the most gifted neurosurgeons in the world end up becoming a magical curator in a museum full of junk?” he says suddenly, the compliment and insult forming a double-edged sword.  
He pokes the Cloak of Levitation gently, which pokes him back with the corner of its red fabric, brushing past him almost like a cat would a person’s legs. This causes a kind of childlike glee to grace the man’s features, and he smiles as he watches it. The sorcerer finds it odd, as the cloak never seems to tolerate others.  
  
On one hand, he’s happy being acknowledged as somewhat equal to the man standing before him, knowing he must have made quite an impression despite the briefness of their encounters. On the other, he feels like an entirely different person now, a feeling he’s sure Stark is familiar with.  
  
“The same way a man who built weapons of mass destruction turns to clean energy and philanthropism, I would think.” Tony’s face darkens at this, so perhaps it was a cruel jab. “A change of heart, a change in circumstance…” He finishes, watching the cloak float gracefully through the air above them. He didn’t want to get into specifics, didn’t want to draw attention to the way his hands still trembled even now.  
  
“So you decided balloon animals were more your thing? Rabbits out of hats?” he questioned, tone dripping in sarcasm, and Stephen has seen this kind of deflection before. Hurting people before they ever got a chance to hurt you.  
  
“I decided to protect the earth’s reality, Stark. That is my job.”  
  
“Are floating tablecloths a standard uniform for that job, or is that one just for you?” he changes the subject again, something he seems to be good at doing, as he reaches out for the cloak once more. It meets him halfway, shoves him lightly, playfully, as the sorcerer fights to hide his disbelief.   
  
“That’s no tablecloth. The Cloak of Levitation, like all magical artefacts, choses it’s wearer carefully-” he stops his sentence as neither of them are paying attention, the cloak poking and tapping at him while the other man half-heartedly pushes it away, a kind of unexpected goofy smile on his face.   
  
He was going to have words with the cloak later, taking the other man’s side like this after everything they had been through.  
Tony appears like he’s going to say something else, but instead they’re interrupted by Bruce returning from his phone call.  
  
“We’ve got a meeting tomorrow.” He says, gives them all coordinates and times and Tony looks like the scientist has just asked him to jump into a pit of ravenous lions. The cloak nudges him as if in consolidation before returning to the sorcerer’s shoulders, and Stephen gives it a welcome pat.  
  
Tomorrow would be interesting, that much was certain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shameless hurt/comfort and fluff/bonding ahead!

Wong returns, unsuccessful.  
  
Not that Stephen expected them to be lucky enough to have a book detailing just how to beat Thanos or stop him getting his hands on the stones, but it’s a disappointment all the same.  
Bruce had wandered back into the library with him, both seeming to be getting on rather well as they chatted about what had been happening in the world during his absence.  
  
The billionaire had poked around in relics and ancient texts, unsure of what to do, until Stephen offered to show him around for fear of another superhero breaking more of his things.  
  
“I should be going.” Tony says eventually, although he’s been here for hours, his traitorous cloak almost gleefully dragging them both along with him.  
  
Despite his initial protests against anything magic, he seemed particularly enthralled with the sword Dragonfang and Axe of Angarrumus, and didn’t want to hear any explanation besides the sorcerer being an extra on the set of Lord of The Rings who smuggled props out with him.  
  
His curiosity was oddly endearing. Knowledge was a powerful tool, and Strange appreciated a man who knew it.  
  
“Right.” Stephen agreed, because he should probably be getting on with other things too.  
Like sleeping, knowing that the next day he would be a newcomer to a room full of mostly superhumans who had all attempted to kill one another.  
He could feel the consequent headache forming already.  
  
He draws a portal back to where he found the billionaire. Stark hesitates before he steps through it, something like fear twisting his features, but it’s gone before the sorcerer can be sure. The man stops for a moment, looking from his window to his feet and back again.  
  
“You, uh-” he cleared his throat as he looked back, unsure of his words, “care for a drink, Doctor?” he asks, much to Stephen’s surprise.  
  
“I- shouldn’t…” he begins rather weakly, looks away. He wonders where it came from, the man’s apparent desire for them to spend more time together.  
  
But he remembers the man he’d seen alone in the tower that afternoon, tired and hurting, and finds himself reluctant to leave Tony on his own again. Alone, counting down the hours until he’s face-to-face with the old friends who left him that way.  
  
Perhaps it’s because Wong is in the sanctuary, or because the cape is ever so slightly tugging him forward, or perhaps it’s simply because he longs for the promise of companionship just as much as the other.  
Whatever the reason, he decides, against his better judgement, to follow Tony Stark through the portal.

* * *

 

  
“So, what’s your poison?” Tony asks, settling himself behind the bar, searching for what he wanted. He takes an expensive bottle, glistening with the silver head of a stag emblazoned just below the neck.  A scotch for him, then.  
  
It’s a fitting choice, for someone who has burning whisky eyes and a clear amber depth any man could drown themselves in.  
  
“What do you recommend, Mr. Stark?” Strange says, an amused quirk to his eyebrow.  
  
“Dalmore. Single malt, 20 years.” Tony informs him as he’s handed a beautiful crystal glass of what just might be liquid gold.  
He takes a sip. It’s deep, rich and sweet.  
Never one for collecting the stuff, but he knows when it’s good, and he knows when it’s extraordinary.  
  
“ _God_ , it’s been so long since I’ve had a decent drink.” He says, his eyes fluttering closed as he gave a sigh. Tony smiles approvingly, and Stephen tries to ignore the heat that rises from the way the other man’s eyes had trailed down his throat.  
  
“Too busy training with monks in the Himalayas?” Stark asks, and he’s surprised by how much truth it held.  
  
“Something like that.” He chuckles, a low rumble, finding the billionaire’s humour much more agreeable than he had so many hours ago.  
  
He’s not sure how long they talk for. Minutes could have trickled into hours, into days, and the keeper of the time stone would be none the wiser.  
  
They talk about Pepper and Christine and how the world couldn’t handle both in the same room. They talk about how their relationships with these women broke down, and about them being unwilling to involve them in the dangers of their heroism. They make fun of the bigwigs they used to know when they wanted nothing more for themselves but to be respected and admired by the masses. About Tony's projects, about the things Stephen has seen.  
  
Their shared bottle of Dalmore had almost disappeared as they sat on the sofa, knees brushing. The fire roared, the cloak roamed around on its own. He felt like it could’ve been his home, in another lifetime.  
  
“Is there anything I should be prepared for tomorrow?” he asks, suddenly curious about the people Stark was prepared to share this home with.  
  
“A shit-load of bickering, probably. Maybe a couple punches. Verbal, physical, the usual.” He shrugs, as if that was any normal way for adults to conduct themselves.  
“As long as you don’t try and get them to sign anything, you should be alright.” He laughs, but it’s hollow and carries no mirth. Stephen wonders when Tony had become so broken. Like a little wind-up toy, too highly strung and bashed against the ground when its melody doesn’t play.  
  
“Doc, I-” He whispers quietly, his eighth glass loosening the words from him. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”  
  
“This?” he questions, although he has a pretty good idea of which blonde, red white and blue ‘this’ might be.  
  
“Seeing them- _him_ , again. _Fuck_ , I mean… It’s been two _years_ now. I should be over this already but I’m still- I’m just…” he trails off, running his hand through his sun-kissed brown hair.  
  
“You’re afraid.” Stephen finishes for him.  
  
Tony hums in agreement. “You don’t happen to have any magical cures for that do you, Dumbledore?”  
  
“Just a Doctor’s patience to listen, I’m afraid.” He smiles apologetically.  
  
“I’m not one for talking.”  
  
“I figured as much.” He sighed. “What about showing?”  
  
Tony’s face was a mix of uncertainty and confusion.  
  
“I have certain… Telepathic abilities, to a degree. Trick of the trade, if you will.” He elaborated.  
Basic telepathy and telekinesis had been one of the first things taught to him by the Ancient One, something beginners learned and advanced as they went. The Eye of Agamotto amplified most of his magic however, to an extent where he could freely view other’s memories and even manipulate them if he wished.  
  
“And you seriously wanna go poking around in the hornet’s nest?” Tony points to his head, a doubtful expression on his face.  
  
“Only with your permission.”  
  
He considers it for a long time, Strange imagining it was likely his fear of letting people in and his desire to be understood battling it out to see who was the victor.  
  
“Yeah.” He says finally, quietly. “Yeah, alright then. Guess it couldn’t hurt.”  
  
He nods and reaches his hand out, ignoring the way it shakes and how Stark watches silently as it does. He touches the tips of his fingers gently to the man’s temple, taking in a breath as he focuses and invites the memories in.

For a moment after, he sees and feels as Tony does.  
  
_A child seeing his father, but all he can feel is_ fear _as Howard grabs him, smells the whisky on his breath and knows what’s in store for him, but he can’t cry because_ “Starks are made of iron” _and he’s disappointed his father enough today._  
  
_He’s older now, his face is held under cold and dirty water, it’s in his throat and stings his eyes, his hands clutching a metal box in a cave with his mind repeating_ the battery _over and over because if he’s not careful the only thing keeping him alive will kill him._  
  
_His chest is burning, heaving, as the light is ripped out of his chest, his mind screaming_ why _and_ betrayal _as blood trickles from his ear and he_ can’t breathe, can’t move _as he stares helplessly up at the man he thought of as a second father._  
  
_There’s poison in his blood now,_ palladium _, he knows he’s going to die so he gets himself so mind-numbingly drunk his vision spins and he doesn’t need to think about it anymore, but when he looks in the mirror all he can see is his father staring back at him._  
  
_He moves forward, now the whole of space is laid out before him, it’s_ cold _and he_ can’t breathe _, Pepper’s face is on the screen and Steve Roger’s words replay in his mind but he_ can’t breathe _,_ “you're not the guy to make the sacrifice play” _he tells himself bitterly and watches the ship blow up as he falls through the emptiness. His eyes close and he thinks_ this is it _._  
  
_Further now, he’s still alive and in a restaurant with Rhodey, but all he can see is the vastness of space, it’s so_ empty _and_ cold _and_ the suit _he needs_ the suit _because suddenly his lungs are too tight and he feels like he’s drowning without the water and he can’t understand why. He tells JARVIS to take him away, he doesn’t know where he’s going and he’s not sure if he even cares._

 _He watches the woman he loves fall out of his reach into towering flames. He can't catch her._  
  
_Loki’s sceptre is right there, but suddenly the Chitauri ship is flying overhead and_ oh god _they’re all lying dead at his feet, and Steve still has a pulse but it’s all Tony’s_ fault _because_ “you could’ve saved us” _and he_ tried _but_ it’s never good enough _\- Steve’s lifeless eyes are boring into his, voice echoing_ “why didn’t you do more?” _as thousands of ships descend from the portal onto an unprotected Earth._  
  
_The conference is over but he’s staring at a photo of a mother’s grief,_ “why didn’t you do more?” _pounding through him as she tells him that it’s his_ fault _._

 _He watches his best friend fall from the sky in the armour he created. He can't catch him._  
  
_Steve needs him now and he won’t let him down, he goes there to help but there’s video footage playing and he knows_ this road. Steve knew _but Steve won’t let him get to the one-armed man, so his father’s greatest achievement stares him in the face as his armour fails and vibranium shatters the glass in his chest and he thinks_ oh god the reactor _as his friend walks away, his parent’s murderer slumped over his shoulder, and leaves him to die._  
  
_He asks for help, again and again, screams and drinks and cries and builds, but all he’s met with is aggression and_ blame _._  
  
_He doesn’t try to defend himself._  
  
_He tells himself that his father must have been right,_ “Starks are made of iron” _even if he still feels like he’s melting._  
  
_So he moulds his crimson metal into his blood, and makes himself into his suit of golden iron._  
  
_He is Anthony Stark, an Iron Man._  
  
  
Stephen gasps in breaths as it finally stops, feels like the memories had taken all the air with them as they disappeared. The pain is aching in his chest, for a man suffering, beaten and crippled.  
  
“ _Tony”_ he says it like it’s the first time he’s ever used it and knew the person behind it.  
The cloak is back around his shoulders as though through instinct, warm red fabric a comforting presence. There’s no more words to be said now, nothing that could possibly ease the burden of what he’s been carrying for so long.

The ends of the fabric reach out, pulling them both together. Tony lets out a shuddering breath as he rests his forehead on Stephen’s shoulder, and he tries not to think about the empty whisky bottle being the only reason they both accept it.  
  
They stay that way for a long time, until he feels Tony’s muscles relax and his breathing shallow out.  
  
It’s 5am, the city lights glow amber and scarlet against the early dawn, the fire long since dwindled into embers.  
  
“You know,” he says softly, not daring to move, and knowing the other man can’t hear him, “I’m surprised it likes you so much. It is such a fickle thing.” The cloak lightly slaps him with the collar, still affectionate, and still wrapped around them both.  
  
It’s the last thing he sees as he closes his eyes and falls into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our beloved Spider-Son will be making an appearance in the next chapter.  
> As always, comments and kudos make me stronger and feel more alive♡


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr. Stark, sir, sorry I’m late, there were these freaky robots in the park but I managed to get them and- Oh.”  
  
Stephen startles awake from the sound of a very excitable voice bursting into the room unannounced, his head violently protesting in agony and the cloak wrapped around him like a blanket. He gathers in his surroundings quickly, the morning sun lightly warming him through the large glass windows, the empty bottle of whisky, and the plush grey couch he had been sleeping on a moment before.

Tony Stark’s couch.  
  
With the man himself nowhere to be seen.  
  
The subsequent awkward eye contact with the young intruder was excruciating, feeling like he had been caught sleeping on the sofa after some lovers spat.  
  
“Um, hi.” The boy says to him eventually, extending his hand, smiling at him. He looks young, probably around seventeen, all floppy brown curls and earnest doe eyes. Dressed in a sky-blue button-up shirt with a prussian blue sweater over the top, his dark jeans and tan shoes matched the two-tone backpack slung over one shoulder.   
He seems quite relaxed for a kid inside a billionaire’s tower, and so Strange wonders absently what the relationship between the two is.   
  
“I’m Peter. Parker.” he beams, and Stephen vaguely remembers snippets of a boy near the end of Tony’s memories, one of only a handful of good that broke through the bad.   
A boy who was all toothy grins and reckless decision making, wrapped up in nerdy t-shirts and red and blue lycra. Tony’s taken him to faraway places, introduced him to brilliant minds around the world, teaches him what he knows and learns what he can’t.   
He used to work alone when tinkering with the Iron Spider or adjusting Karen, but eventually found that over time an extra workstation had made its way into his lab. It’s cluttered, full of notebooks and research paper, empty coffee cups and sandwich wrappers and scribbles of handwriting on loose pages next to conical flasks of overflowing web-fluid. There’s a little Iron Man funko pop that’s definitely seen better days, sitting in front of a child’s signed drawing of a red and blue figure that’s taped to the wall.  
  
This boy is the one they call Spider-Man, then.  
  
“Doctor Strange.” He covers the awkwardness in the exchange by taking the young man’s waiting hand with a tight smile, noting the incredible strength to the grip.   
The boy’s hand stiffens slightly upon the introduction, face a mixture of awe and surprise.  
  
“Woah! It’s an honour to meet you, Mister… uh, Doctor, sir.”  
  
“Just… Doctor is fine.” He insisted, really not wanting to go through this ordeal again.   
  
His name truly was going to be the death of him.   
  
“You’ve heard of me?” he settles for instead.  
  
“Yeah, I’ve been watching you!” he gushes, but realises the implications immediately at Stephen’s look of unease, his face falling. “I-I mean, not in the creepy, _Bond-villain_ way, I just- happened to be in the area one time and Karen told me about a robbery nearby, but when I got there, you had already dealt with it. Those glowy red ribbon things you used were so _cool_!”  
  
He concludes the boy must be talking about when he stopped that bank robbery while on a lunch run. Hardly anything exciting or mystical, but it had been a long morning fighting with packs of demons with poisonous claws trying to invade earth, he was hungry, and definitely in no mood to wait on whatever costumed crusader would show up to resolve the conflict.   
They’re interrupted by a soft ding from the elevator, and Stephen silently hopes it’s not yet another excitable teenager Stark has stashed around somewhere.  
  
“They’re a little flashy, if you ask me.” a familiar voice calls from the open elevator, Tony Stark strutting into view, a sly smirk on his face.   
He’s dressed finely, a jarring contrast to the faded jeans and black top he had seen him in the day before. The sleek seams of his dark satin suit accented the dusky red-maroon of his shirt, the top two buttons left open and exposing the tanned skin of his neck. A soft, dim blue shone out from his chest.   
  
“You would know.” Strange looks him up and down, deliberate and appraising, an amused half-smile quirking his lips. “I didn’t know this was a formal occasion.”  
Stephen is momentarily mesmerised. He feels caught, like the fly in the web taking the time to admire the spider. A deep red lily against a backdrop of endless night, the whole ensemble was a statement. A move of power that commanded the eyes of all those around him.   
  
Aptly chosen, for the day ahead of him.  
  
“Gotta look my best before I’m fed to the wolves, Strange.” He holds his arms up as if inviting the sorcerer’s gaze, and then gives him a teasing wink.  
Stephen suppresses the urge to react.   
  
“Hey, Pete.” he greets the boy casually, something said a thousand times before. “What’s up?”

“Hey Mr. Stark, I’m here for that project you said you wanted us to work on together? I had some ideas for increasing tensile strength in the test fluid.” he says, half terribly exited and half nervous energy. It’s an odd mixture.  
“We… are still on for that, right? I- I can come by later, or if you’re too busy-”  
  
“Actually, there’s kind of an Avengers meeting today. Something about saving the fate of the universe, all that boring stuff. You wanna swing by later and we can work on it then?” he gives him a pat on the back reassuringly.   
They make an odd duo, like those loose puzzle pieces left in the box that somehow seem to fit together perfectly despite having a different picture on top.  
  
There seemed to be something in Peter’s eyes that Tony was sensing, as he immediately places his hands on his hips and frowns.   
  
“Absolutely not. This is _way_ beyond your paygrade, kid.”  
  
“But _sir…_!” he whines, despite not actually saying anything prior to it.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be in school or something? Doing homework?”  
  
“It’s Saturday. And I don’t have any homework!”  
  
“Really? Because I can call Ms. Hartman and find out if-”  
  
“Is it really such a bad idea?” Stephen interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want this to devolve any further into father-son politics.   
“We’ll need as many people as possible to be aware of the dangers our new foe presents. Spider-Man has many talents that could assist in the potential coming battles.”  
Peter eyed him with wonder and confusion, no doubt trying to recall if he had told the sorcerer about his identity.   
“Sorcerer Supreme. Part of the job description.” He offers in explanation, and Peter nods as if that makes sense, even though it likely doesn’t.   
  
“…Alright.” Tony says eventually after apparently mulling it over, and Peter gives a hiss of triumph.   
“But you’re on your _best_ behaviour, you hear? Or your Spider-Butt won’t be doing _any_ crime-fighting for _at least_ a month.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“No fangirling over the other Avengers, either.”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
They stare at one another silently for another ridiculously long moment, Strange and the cloak glancing between their faces in an attempt to determine what was going on.   
It’s as if they were speaking without words.  
  
“Go and get it, then.” He sighs eventually, giving in as though he’s lost an argument he never even started.

“Yes! You’re the best, Mr. Stark!” Peter bounds over to the elevator immediately, grin wide and infectious, waving at them both erratically as the doors begin to close. Stephen wonders how he contains that much excitement in his small body.  
“Yeah, yeah…” Stark rolls his eyes, but looks rather pleased with the compliment, preening a little.   
  
“Teenagers.” Tony tells him with an amused smile, as though that could possibly encompass the whirlwind of an experience that was Peter.   
  
“He’s certainly… something.” Stephen agrees with a chuckle, the absurdity of watching the ‘billionaire playboy’ from glossy magazines try to parent the equivalent of a super-powered golden retriever proving too much for him.  
  
An almost comfortable silence descends on them after that. Nothing like the night before, where every moment had to be filled with idle chatter, as if to distract from the fact it was the first time in years either man had had a proper companion.   
He’s wandered somewhere over to the bar again, clearing away glasses and reaching under it for something Stephen can’t see.  
  
He briefly thinks back on the night, of the things he’s seen and the way he sees the man now. You can’t see a lifetime of a man’s pain and come out the other side unchanged. He notices the warmth to his eyes and the softness to his movements, his sheepish consideration as he re-emerges from the bar with a cold bottle of water and paracetamol.  
  
“There’s a bathroom down the hall if you’re looking to get cleaned up.” He says as he passes the items into his hand, their fingers brushing slightly.  
He takes it gratefully, nodding and making his way to the end of the room.  
  
“Tony?” he questions, although he’s not really sure what he wants to ask. He sees the warning in the other man’s eyes, a silent plea asking him not to bring up the nights events.   
He doesn’t know what to call what they’ve settled into now. It’s not quite friendship, not yet, but there’s no more animosity left. There’s an inevitable pull to Tony that Stephen finds himself drawn to, gravitating towards him like the moon follows the earth.   
“…Thank you.” He settles for instead.  
The man looks briefly surprised, blinks as if thanks for hospitality was something unexpected, but he conceals it well.  
  
“Don’t mention it.” He waves his hand dismissively, busying himself with cleaning up.  
  
Stephen takes it as his cue to go.

 

-

 

He takes Tony up on his offer in the end.   
  
The bathroom was modern, spacious luxury at every glance. Pure white marble flooring spread across the room, a large crystal mirror on the wall with matte charcoal sinks fixed below. A single peach-coloured moth orchid sitting between the sinks was the only hint of colour in the room, soft and organic in a room of black and white constructs.  
  
The water pressure had been testy for some time now back at the Sanctum, and he’s not quite ready to face Wong’s questioning about why he hadn’t been home all night. He feels a little like a teenager that snuck out for a midnight car ride with her jock boyfriend, and he’s not sure if Wong would be the sympathetic mother or the over-bearing father.  
  
He conjures a portal into his wardrobe and flicks through the modest amount of clothes he owns.   
He’s rarely seen in anything other than his sorcerer robes, but he thinks he should follow Tony’s lead and pick something that commands a little more respect. He was expected to be an authority on the stones, along with Doctor Banner knowing the most about Thanos.   
The last thing he needs is the other Avengers not taking him seriously.  
  
He picks out a plain, slate-grey fitted three-piece, a crisp white shirt, and an accompanying scarlet-red slim tie that he knows the cloak will be pleased with. He’s left it back in the sitting area with Tony, where he hopes it will be behaving itself. He also picks up the brand of shower gel he’s taken a liking to, deeply scented like earth and spice, a can of deodorant he reminds himself he needs to replace, and a razor.

He finally steps out of his blue robes and into the shower, with its spacious, sleek glass panes and a large, square shower head with water that fell full and heavy like rain. It was heavenly, soothing the aches and pains in his muscles from falling asleep in the position he had.  
  
The days had taken a strange turn, even for someone who deals with extra-dimensional humanoid beings from the dark dimension and primordial cosmic entities that inhabit the spaces between universes on a semi-regular basis.   
He suspects the coming days will only serve to get worse, the threat of Thanos looming over them all. He has faith in his two new allies, perhaps more than he thought he would, but it’s the equivalent of running headfirst into an ambush blindfolded and empty-handed.  
  
He resigns himself to the fact that his days of working alone would be long out of his reach for a while, but finds he doesn’t mind it as much. Perhaps creating new ties would prove to be of benefit to him should the need arise.  
  
Finishing up, he steps out and grabs a nearby towel to dry himself off. He straightens the edges of his goatee as best he can despite the tremors in his hands, and uses his magic to summon a small gust to dry his hair. Once he’s fully dressed, he appraises himself in the mirror, turning and running a hand down the soft fabric of his jacket.   
He takes in one last steadying breath, and sets out of the bathroom to re-join the others.

 

-

 

He returns to Tony and Peter sitting on the couch together.   
  
Parker was wearing his costume, but it seemed to be more metallic than Stephen remembered, the large arachnid symbol on his chest trimmed with golden accents. He had a small red gaming console in his hands, one of those Nintendo things, completely absorbed in it and barely noticing the sorcerer’s return.  
  
Tony, on the other hand, notices him immediately, glancing up from a holographic tablet he was working with. His eyes widen slightly and he sucks in a small breath.  
  
Stephen tries not to read too much into it.  
  
“Looking sharp, Strange.” He admired, deliberately taking him in just as the sorcerer had done before.  
  
“I can’t have you taking all the spotlight, after all.” He replies, a playful challenge.  
  
“Please, like I can contend with Aladdin’s magic carpet over here.” He gestures to the cloak in attempted exasperation, draped loosely over his lap like a cat, but it came out fond and soft. It perks up at Stephen’s return, rippling its fabric and floating over to resume its place on the sorcerer’s shoulders.   
  
Tony finishes playing around with some sort of schematic, making a throwaway gesture as the blue fades to nothing, before checking his watch.  
  
“ _Shit._ The meeting starts in five minutes.” He laments as he stands quickly, running a hand down his face and pulling his lower lids with it.   
“Pete, up.” He orders, and the boy obliges instantly, flipping his game closed and setting it on the arm of the couch. _“God_ , I’m _so_ gonna get my ass chewed out for this… I’ll need to have Happy-”  
  
“There’s really no need for that.” Strange interrupts, attempts to calm him down. “I presume you have images of the compound?”  
  
“Well, yeah. I re-built it. But I don’t see how that’s gonna-”  
  
“Show them to me.”  
  
Tony looks at him questioningly, debates challenging him on why he wants them, but ultimately gives in.  
  
“Friday, pull up images of the Avengers compound for the good doctor, would you?”  
  
“ _Yes, boss_.” The AI responded, blue holograms immediately floating all around him with images of modern and spacious rooms and metallic conference areas accented with red furnishings.   
He sees the kind of medical bays he used to dream of as a surgeon, clean and dove-white, near workshops full of advanced technology and tools. There’s a large, open-plan lobby, which he decides gives enough room for error in judgement, so he focuses on that one as he draws his sling ring from his pocket.  
  
“Perfect. Shall we be off?” he steps to the side when the portal is complete, holding an arm out towards it.  
  
Stark stops to look at him blankly through his panic, phone half-raised, before realising what was happening. He eyes the portal suspiciously, as if it might try to swallow him whole, but simply nods to the sorcerer in acknowledgement. He passes through hesitantly into the lobby, turning once he was through to make sure the others would follow.  
  
“Man, this is so handy. Can you teach me how to do it?” Peter asks in awe, eyes looking comically wide even without the mask. He sticks his hand through and pulls it back several times, before finally putting on his mask and doing a flip through to the other side. He lands like a trapeze artist, two hands raised in the air as if to welcome applause.  
  
“Absolutely not.” Stephen tells him sternly, stepping through himself. Peter tenses as if he’d said the wrong thing, but Strange gives a playful smirk. “You’ll just get lazy.” he finishes.  
Tony scoffs in amusement at Peter’s slumped shoulders and defeated sigh, leading them off to the room the meeting would be held in.  
  
He closes the portal and follows, hoping the other Avengers were at least half as entertaining as these two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going on holiday for a week, so updates are slightly slower than expected. I know Ch3 doesn't really further the plot that much more, so I hope that doesn't disappoint anyone.   
> There's a lot of characters to write into Ch4 and a lot of plot to figure out, so I hope you bear with me!♡


	4. Chapter 4

The compound lobby was much livelier than the empty pictures had suggested. It was bustling with briefcase-clad suits, doctors, researchers, government officials. A place of science and innovation, modern and faced to the future.   
The futurist himself looks fully at home here, greeting people with nods and kind words about their work. He’s the kind of superior any young mind would want to intern under, supportive, inquisitive, and intelligent.  
  
“You’ll need an access card before you can get into the conference room.” Tony tells him, pointing him in the direction of the receptionist.  
  
She’s a small woman with a kind face, a short red bob, and a crisp black pencil-skirt suit with a moss-green satin blouse,.  
  
“Hello,” She sings pleasantly, voice soft and silky. She assesses him, taking in his suit and the red cloak that had insisted on sitting upon his shoulders. “Doctor Strange, I’m guessing?”  
  
“Yes. How did you-?”  
  
“I was informed to be on the lookout for ‘tall, dark and mysterious’.” Her green eyes twinkle with mischief, and he looks back just in time to catch a smirk from Tony before he’s returning his attention to a young scientist. He feels heat rising to his cheeks, and runs a hand over the back of his neck.  
  
The receptionist sets to typing at her computer briefly, slender fingers with meticulously manicured nails, before handing him out a small plastic card. It has his name, occupation listed as ‘wizard’, and a silver holographic sticker which he presumes is scanned to allow access. There’s a space that should hold his picture for identification, but it’s just a picture of Dumbledore.  
  
“Doctor Strange, this is your temporary access card. Director Stark has cleared you for initial Level 4 security access, which includes the training rooms in B1, and a special request for the medical bays on 3F. You will be granted further access should you wish to accept the pending offer of a permanent place on the Avengers roster.”  
  
“On the-?” he begins, but she looks at him expectantly, as though he already has accepted, so he decides the process of asking would be futile. “Thank you, Miss-?”  
  
“Melanie Lemay.” She reaches her hand out, which he accepts with some hesitation.  
  
“Miss Lemay.” He nods, taking the card from her and re-joining the others. He resolves to bring it up with Stark later, once more important matters had been dealt with.

 

* * *

 

The silence is deafening as they walk into the conference room, all the eyes drawn automatically to the man of the hour and his companions.  
  
Tony Stark, confident genius and billionaire, avoids any and all eye contact with every member of the room, instead walking briskly and silently to the open window.   
Stephen, for lack of knowing what else to do, follows him to the head of the table.   
Spider-Man branches off to go and… sit on the wall at the back of the room. Curious.  
  
He stands an arm length beside Stark, a slight part taller, and sweeps his gaze over the meetings attendees. He knows of them, keeps a list of most super-powered beings in the universe along with its threats.   
  
Vision is seated closest to him at the table, although his only identifiable feature is the mind stone in his forehead. Gone is the metallic green and red, replaced with soft human features and sandy blonde hair. A woman sits close beside him, long caramel hair in soft curls, clad in casual clothes and a red leather coat. Their hands are clasped under the table, and he feels her magic residue from across the room rising up to assess his own. The energy of it is alive, cardinal red wisps of ribbons that twisted and shifted, no doubt in response to the presence of another stone within the room. He keeps it at bay effortlessly, as a caution, but if the Scarlet Witch notices, she says nothing.   
She sits next to a woman, he guesses is likely the Black Widow, short platinum blonde hair and wearing a black and khaki green full bodysuit. She appraises him as he looks at her, something dangerous lurking within gunmetal blue eyes. There’s a further man he doesn’t know, seated next to Captain America.   
Steve Rogers looks anything but America’s blue-eyed golden boy, his face set in harsh lines and tawny brown hair almost long enough to fall over his eyes. He’s grown out his facial hair, dressed in a heavy dark navy costume with the silver star cut from it and the red and white stripes blackened out. He stares right at the billionaire, face betraying a resigned regret, who’s determined not to return the gesture.   
Stephen steps a little closer to Tony, inquires quietly if he’s alright, which earns him a lingering hand on his back and a small smile that can’t quite reach his eyes.  
He recognises Black Panther at the other side of him, intricate black and silver costume and an air that exuded grace and regality. A slightly smaller man sits beside him, smiling at Tony, his legs in bracers that share a similarity with the Iron Man armour.   
Bruce is off to the side of them, looking exhausted and worrying absently at the hem of his suit jacket.  
  
The room was tense beyond belief, but not just from the threat of Thanos.  
  
Tony drops his hand from Stephen’s back as he steps forward, the warmth immediately missed.

“For those of us not yet acquainted, this is Doctor Stephen Strange, ex-brilliant-neurosurgeon and now currently the leader of Earth’s Mightiest Cult.” He flashes the sorcerer a dazzling smile, the only thing about the mask he wore that seemed genuine. Strange lets him have it, because it’s likely the same conclusion they’d all come to anyway.  
  
“He’s our guy when it comes to the stones. Yes, the cape does float-”   
  
Peter raises his hand at the back of the room.   
  
“-And no, you can’t pet it.” Tony finishes.  
  
Peter slowly lowers his arm in response, dejected.  
  
The cloak ripples, whether preening or in amusement, Stephen can’t tell.  
  
“The kid awkwardly sticking to the corner, being true to his namesake, is Spider-Man, my young protégé. He’s here on a strict, information-only basis, in case those among us have any… _complaints_.”  
  
Several of the people in the room, his own companions included, glance at Steve Rogers. He notices this, and puffs himself out a little indignantly.  
“When I was his age, I had asthma, scarlet fever, tuberculosis, _and_ still tried to get into the army. I don’t think I’m in a position to condemn.”  
  
“Point taken.” The man beside him raises his eyebrows and nods his head to the side, everyone once again returning their attention to Tony.  
  
“Strange, to your left is Vision, Scarlet Witch, Black Widow, Falcon, and Captain America. To your right is Rhodey, my honey-bear, light of my life, and beside him is Black Panther, king of Wakanda. The three lovely ladies behind him, of whom I don’t know the names of, are members of the Dora Milaje.” They make no motion in response, only silently keep guard, as expected of a highly-trained elite soldiers.  
“I’ve been your host, Tony Stark, let’s try to wrap this whole thing up quickly before the government is on my ass for housing fugitives of the state. Bruce, if you would?”  
  
The scientist snaps out of his stupor, seemingly encouraged by Tony’s confidence. He steps out of his seat to join them at the window, still picking at his sleeve, and the billionaire gives him a quick pat on the back when he still doesn’t speak.   
It was hard to believe such a timid man was the embodiment of such a ferocious and mighty alter-ego, but it made sense, in a way.  
Those who are trod on have the heaviest step.  
  
“Um, yeah, hey everyone. I’m back? I guess… maybe I owe you all an explanation?” he looks sheepishly around the room, his eyes resting slightly longer on the strained features of Black Widow. She’s caught between a smile and a frown, something soft and vulnerable fighting a hard and jagged line. His expression is one of absolute sorrow, but he doesn’t have the liberty of dwelling on it.   
There’s a past there, something complicated Stephen isn’t privy to the details of.  
  
“Thor and I, we ended up on a planet called Sakaar, ran by The Grandmaster.”   
He begins, hesitantly, and Stephen’s interest perks at the mention of one of the Elders of the Universe. A survivor of one of the first intelligent races to evolve in the galaxies formed after the Big Bang, he was a cosmic entity that neither aged nor died.  
“He collects people, beings, creatures, and pits them against each other in some sort of… gladiator match. Thor found me, busted us and another Asgardian out so we could stop Thor and Loki’s evil sister from gaining control over the nine-realms. We managed to stop her, but Asgard was destroyed in the process by a giant fire demon called Surtur after Loki kick-started Ragnarok. So, we all set out for Earth after that with the rest of the surviving Asgardians, maybe start a settlement in Norway, something like that.”  
  
There was complete, pin-drop silence as he finished, a pregnant pause no-one was sure what to fill with. Bruce notices, and adjusts the tight collar of his white shirt awkwardly.  
  
“That’s… That’s when we came across the ship. They attacked us. Loki had the tesseract, they wanted the space stone within it. We tried to fight him, he almost killed Thor, I- _the Hulk_ , tried, but… It was no use. He was just… too _powerful_. The next thing I remember is crashing through the sanctum skylight, with nothing but the name Thanos in my head.”  
  
The silence this time was even more deafening, the vision of the threat they faced slowly beginning to form. Like clouds being cleared from a winter sky, or filling in the lines of a map in order to navigate some horrible tragedy.  
  
“Thor, is-? Is he…?” Rogers trails off, sentence clear, the voice of concern for his former team-mate a sobering thought.  
  
“I don’t know, Steve. I- I don’t know.”  
  
He looks around the table, the solemn faces of Thor’s friends who last saw him so long ago, and silently hopes the now-King of Asgard made it out of the Mad Titan’s grasp.  
  
Tony steps up from where he had been listening silently from the window, hands in his pockets as he leaned cross-legged on the sill.   
  
“But what we _do_ know, is what this guy’s after. Right?” Stark defers over to him, reaches his hand out to squeeze the space above the sorcerer’s elbow, as Stephen feels a powerful collective gaze passing over to him. He nods to Tony, finding strength in his resolve.  
  
“Thanos is after six cosmic relics of unimaginable power. You may know one of these from your companion-” he waves his hand over to Vision, the yellow gem glowing steadily in his forehead. “These… infinity stones, were formed from the very birth of the Universe, and each control an essential aspect of existence.”  
He loosens his magic from his fingers, darkening the room and forming a visual aid of a beautiful galaxy that had long-since died off. It sprawls out over the ceiling, clouds of brilliant purples and blues that birthed stars that shone and burned. Replicas of the colourful crystalline forms floated through the air above them. Tony watches it, watches him, with rapt attention. Honey-brown eyes flicking from his hands to the star system above them, as though trying to unravel the science, or the man, behind it.  
“Space. Reality. Power. Soul. Mind-” he sounds them all off, giving each one a glow to put an image to name. “And Time.”   
He made sure he had gloves, a fine black pair that covered the scars on his hands, and bends his fingers to the hand gesture of revealing the eye. It glows a steady emerald once released from the eye, both comforting and unnerving.  
  
He can feel several of the people in the room reassess him, hesitancy and mistrust evident in their cautious stares. They are likely surprised, a seemingly simple man like him in possession of such an artefact escaping their attention for so long.

“These stones cannot be destroyed, nor their properties altered. They are immensely powerful, and can only be wielded in their pure form by exceptionally powerful beings.” He continues on, not giving them time to question him. “Each power is amplified by its corresponding aspect. The space stone grants further control over the time stone, the time stone grants further control over the reality stone, and so on.”  
“As of this moment, this is all we know. I have my students consulting a handful of ancient relics and texts for more information, and I will be sure to update all of you of any progress made.”  
  
“Students? Are you sure they can handle something that important?” It’s the first time she’s spoken, a question intended to test him, to see his composure.  
  
“With respect, Ms. Romanov, I am the Sorcerer Supreme of Earth, and Master of the Mystic Arts. Any of the students I select are more than capable in their abilities.” He gives a professional smile, letting her know that he cannot be broken or re-moulded so easily. He is in no mood to be challenged today.  
Tony hides a small smirk, clearly amused by Stephens response, covering his quirked lips by running a hand over them.  
  
“Look, Thanos has the biggest army in the Universe, and he’s not gonna stop until he gets his hands on all six of those stones. We need all hands on deck.” Bruce says, clearly used to being the mediator in these situations. He looks around, seemingly doing a head-count, before looking puzzled. “Where’s Clint?”  
  
“After the whole… Accords situation, he and Scott took a deal. It was too tough on their families, they’re on house arrest.” Natasha tells him, careful with her words, whatever their past was together clearly set aside for the moment.  
  
“Who’s Scott?”  
  
“Antman.” Steve replies.   
  
“There’s an Antman… _and_ a Spider-Man?” he asks, incredulous. Peter gives him a frantic wave from the corner, looking happy to just be there.  
  
“And a Wasp.” Rhodey nods, as if he often finds himself thinking the same thing.   
  
“So, this- _Thanos_ , needs all six?” The man, Falcon, speaks up. “Why not just try and get rid of that one?” he says, pointing out the amulet on Stephen’s chest.  
  
“No can do.” He tells him, irked. “I’ve sworn an oath to protect the time stone, with my life if necessary.”  
  
“If Thanos manages to get his hands on the other four, these two remaining stones may be the only chance we stand against him.” Black Panther agrees.  
  
“You said only a being of extraordinary power could control these stones. What kind of being are we talking here?” Rhodey asks him, trying to form a clearer image of what scale they were facing.  
  
“It’s unlikely that Thanos is capable of wielding the stones without a counter-measure. There are extra-terrestrial cosmic beings, descendants of the First Universe called Celestials, who are able to use them, but they are an ancient race and near-mythological. I think he may be using some sort of technology to keep them from destroying him.”  
  
“That technology… do you think we could replicate it?” Steve asks, the first time they’ve spoken directly since a frozen bunker in Siberia. “Stark?”  
  
It’s been two years now, but it somehow feels like a thousand passing as they finally meet eye-to-eye.  
  
“Hard to say. I’ve got nothing to go off of, besides the data on the mind stone. There’s no telling how long something like that could take.” He walks away, frustrated, gazing out to the open grass field below.   
  
“We have time, Tony.” Stephen reminds him, wanting to reassure him there was at least someone in his corner.   
We, because they were in this together now. For better or worse.  
  
“I can help too if you need it, Mister Stark.” Peter says, finally jumping off from the wall to stand beside the sorcerer. It sounds like it was said with a smile, although he can’t be sure of it through the mask.   
Tony glances at them, breaking his daze, and lets out a small huff of breath he likely didn’t know he had been holding.  
  
“It sounds… Crazy. But, if anyone can do it, it’s got to be you.” Bruce urges him, voice laughing but fond.  
The genius’ look is soft in return, a little overwhelmed.  
  
“I will ask Shuri and her team to establish a holographic communication link. Resources and minds should be shared in this time of great need.”  
  
It was all the confirmation they needed to start the beginnings of a plan.  
  
“Is the stone easily removed from the amulet, Doctor?” he continues, the respect applied to his title an odd thing coming from a King.  
  
“It’s spell-bound to my life-force, I am the only one capable of removing it.”  
  
“And Vision?” he adds, but is unsure who to address the question to. He glances between Tony, Vision and Bruce, who all share a look between each other.   
The subject is tender, no one knowing what it could mean for the living person he’s become through the stone.  
  
“It’s… Possible. Vision is made up of a complex construct of overlays. JARVIS, Ultron, Tony, me, the stone… All of them mixed together. All of them learning from each other.” Bruce tries to reassure.   
  
“So, you’re saying Vision isn’t just the stone.” Wanda turns hopeful.  
  
“I’m saying without the stone, there’s still a hell of a lot of Vision left. Maybe even the best parts.” Bruce urged.  
  
“But we would have to disconnect over two-trillion neurons from the stone. We don’t have that kind of technology. Even one wrong move could cause a complete system failure.” Tony shares a long history with Vision, one that began long before he had become corporeal. The look they share is a sad one, the face of a man that doesn’t want to say goodbye to a friend already lost once before.  
  
“And if you were to be provided with that technology, it would be possible?” The King speaks again.  
  
“Yes.” Bruce answers for the three of them. “It would be a long and difficult process, but yes.”

“Then I suggest assigning teams. We have what you need, but our technology does not leave the borders.” The King was every bit as calm and collected as Stephen had imagined, a voice of reason among a sea of vendettas. “The other Avengers cannot stay here, so it would be best if they also returned to Wakanda with us.”  
  
“Then, a team will remain here to aid in safeguarding the time stone. The New York Sanctum is naturally warded from cosmic detection, so it will be safer there.” Stephen offers his support to T’Challa’s idea. “Having both stones so close together would seem like personally extending an invitation to Thanos.”  
  
The room hums with agreement, finally.  
 

* * *

 

  
Some time later, the finalities of their plan had been ironed out.  
  
Tony, Rhodey, himself, and Spider-Man would stay in New York, with those remaining leaving for Wakanda in a few short hours. The New York team would work on the technology that could use the power of the stones.   
  
The Wakandan team would remove the stone from Vision, then collaborate with Tony on what was left of his project.   
  
The meeting is done now, people chatting amongst themselves and processing the information that had been given out.   
  
“Doctor, mind if I speak to you for a second?” The voice of Steve Rogers asks from just behind him. Tony looks anxiously between them from where he was stood at the other end of the room with Bruce.  
  
“Of course.” He replies politely, because he has no excuse not to be, eyes still trained on Tony.   
  
They walk away from the others, Steve leading the way, out into the adjacent room.   
A light breeze was blowing from the open window, cooling the room from the warm sun filtering through the dense trees outside the compound. Tables sat in the middle, clean white tablecloths over them, with a large selection of lunch options spread out, coffee and tea, bottles of water chilling in a bucket of ice.   
A considerate thought, after being trapped in there for so long.  
  
“Looks… Nice.” Steve says sheepishly, scratching at the dark blonde beard he appeared to be sporting these days. He looks a little surprised, and a little uncomfortable, at the revelation they were to have lunch together.  
  
“Captain.” Strange prompted, knowing he wasn’t exactly brought in here to admire a lunch spread. His curiosity was getting the better of him, making him a little impatient.  
  
“Right.” He snaps to attention, going from man to soldier in a matter of seconds.   
  
“About Tony-” he takes a breath, beginning hesitantly, as if he almost didn’t want to be saying it.   
  
Stephen found himself silently hoping this wasn’t about to be one of those ‘look, Tony’s an asshole, I’m much better’ speeches in an attempt to get him in on the Superhero Outlaw Squad. He’s had enough recruitment attempts for one day.  
  
“I’m glad he has people around now.”   
  
It’s not what Strange had expected him to say at all, and it must show on his face.   
  
“You two… seem close. Spider-Man, too.” He looks to the window, the light playing on his troubled features, baby blue eyes clouded with uncertainty, serving as a startling reminder the man had barely hit thirty and yet still remembered the forties.  
“I really do wish we had agreed on The Accords.” He runs a hand over his face. “But we didn’t, and maybe we never could. Each of us chose the path that we believed in, and that’s all any of us could do. And I don’t regret that choice, but… I do regret how it ended between us.”   
  
He can hardly believe he’s receiving such a confession.   
  
“Being away from the situation for so long now, I realise there were so many things that could’ve been done differently. So many other choices I could’ve made. I wanted to spare him the pain of what I knew, but I think… I was probably just sparing myself.”   
  
He knows it’s not his fight, knows he should be impartial. Maybe at one point, he could’ve been.  
But now, the phantom pain of a vibranium shield weighs down heavily on his chest, and he can’t quite bring himself to have empathy. The silence between them is uncomfortable, and he itches to erase it.  
  
“It’s natural to make rash decisions when faced with difficult circumstances. What matters is how we account for those decisions when the dust settles.” He tries taking the impartial route, but he’s not his mentor, although the thought of it makes him fond.  
  
“He doesn’t blame you, you know.” He starts again, never being one for speaking anything other than what he felt. “I’ve seen everything, from his eyes. There is more pain and devastation in that man’s heart than any other I’ve met. But there is also an unending capacity for goodness, something others rarely see. Talk to him. Perhaps it won’t salvage your friendship, but it could at least provide closure.”  
  
Steve turns to face him now, so many emotions crossing his face it was difficult to discern what true emotion he was feeling.   
  
“That… Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”  
  
“And Captain?” he adds, finds himself looking into the eyes of the personification of peak human perfection, yet holds his gaze steadily. “Please, do not hurt him again. Or our next conversation will not end nearly as amicably.”  
  
“…Understood.” Steve nods, jaw clenched and resigned, before the first wave of people begin to fill the room in search of food and hydration.   
  
Peter, first out and flitting quickly about the tables, piling his plate with all the options he could get his hands on. He was closely followed out by the Black Widow and Falcon, who make their way to Steve’s side, no doubt to assure his safety.  
The sorceress sticks close to Vision as they exit together, the android holding the door for her as they match one another’s strides, smiling softly from just being in the same space as the other. They were a Romeo and Juliet pair, soft stolen touches and gentle eyes only focused on the other, still defiantly in love despite the nature of their sides. He thinks perhaps one day the others could follow their example, but he knows it’s not quite as simple as that.  
He knows T’Challa will be stepping through the door next before he actually does, two of his three accompanying warriors entering first, clearing space with vibranium spears in hand, a serious look on their faces. They remind him of the other Sanctum guardians he’s met, duty-bound and always vigilant. Their king’s face is softer, however, somewhere between amused and content as he chats offhandedly to the third warrior, his general. She has a fierce nature about her, one that Stephen would not readily find himself up against.  
Bruce and Tony emerge last, gesturing animatedly at one another and likely discussing some sort of project. They part ways at the drinks table, Bruce approaching Natasha cautiously, his hands jittery and nervous, taking her aside. She goes willingly, leaving most of the room chatting in pairs of two.  
Tony approaches him, two bottles of water in hand.   
  
“My ears are burning. Anything new I should know about myself that hasn’t been in a magazine by now?” he quirks an eyebrow at the sorcerer, no doubt expecting a negative reaction to his presence, who takes the offer gratefully and huffs a laugh at his not-so-subtle way of inquiry.  
  
“You’re safe for now, fortunately. We simply came to an… Understanding.” He says, deliberately vague.  
  
“Please, _tell_ me you didn’t threaten _Captain America_.”  
  
“…Well, I wasn’t exactly _planning_ on _telling_ you-”  
  
“Christ, _Stephen-_ ” the use of his first name was a surprise to his ears, but not an unwelcome one. “The guy already hates my guts, and now he thinks I’m calling in Hogwarts for back-up?” he says, exasperated, but there’s no heat to it. It sounds… simply sad, or defeated.  
  
Strange gives him a pointed look, knowing he’s not even close to scraping the bottom of the barrel of magical nicknames, but notices how tight his expression looks.   
  
He reaches out with his magic, curious, and checks the aura in the room. There’s hints of tight discomfort, even wistful sadness from Steve’s group, other hints of affection and fondness from Wanda and Vision, Peter is a spike of innocent excitement in the corner, but it’s all being drowned out by the man next to him.   
Tony’s anxiety is almost completely overwhelming, a twisted and ugly black mass of bitterness, fear and panic. He’s amazed the man can even breathe, the feeling is so suffocating.   
He knows perhaps Tony wouldn’t like it, but he takes some of the toxic emotions for himself, secretly sharing whatever burden the man had been carrying for god-knows how long. It’s a terrible feeling, but he sees the genius’ shoulders relax slightly and decides it was worth it.  
  
“We spoke only briefly. He told me he doesn’t regret his actions,” Stephen tells him then, offering the proverbial olive branch, watching as Tony wrinkles his nose, frowning. It’s likely something he already knows, he’s known the man far longer, knows not to expect any remorse from his own decisions.   
“But he does regret the effect it’s had on both of you, and the team. I suggested he talk to you about it. I’m not your keeper, but he certainly seemed to think it was worth mentioning to me.”  
  
Tony smiles at this, clearly pleased with the development.  
  
“Honestly? I’m a little surprised he didn’t try to convince you I’m actually the devil-incarnate.”  
  
“I wouldn’t require much convincing on that front.” He raises an eyebrow playfully, and smiles a little at the short bark of laughter that escapes the genius.   
  
“I do look rather dashing in red.” He snickered.   
  
He buries the part of himself that sings of how much he agrees.  
  
“He… actually wanted to thank me for being there for you.” Stephen says as he looks around the group, his eyes settling on Peter trying to interact with the Cloak of Levitation. It circles the boy as if trying to appraise him, Peter waving his hand in the space the sorcerer’s body usually occupies in complete fascination. It eventually brushes against his side as it had with Tony, earning an excited gasp and a pat from the boy.   
  
Stephen wonders if it has any sense of loyalty at all.  
  
Tony remains uncharacteristically quiet.  
  
“Of course, I left out the part about us meeting yesterday.”

He grins then, genuine and so open it punches the breath from him, placing his hand on the small of Stephen’s back and guiding them over to speak more with T’Challa.  
  
“You better stick around, then.” He says, voice a murmur close to his ear. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Captain America, now would we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter was alright! It's by far the hardest one I've written so far, due to all the character interactions! Hopefully it didn't seem too crammed or too dialogue heavy either :')  
> Let me know what you think!  
> (+5 points if anyone knows what game/who the receptionist was a reference to!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's update! I apologise for my extended absence!
> 
> This ship sure has grown since I started writing, huh? I love it!♡

He portals himself into the kitchen first. A nice, relaxing cup of tea was exactly what he needed after the stress of the meeting.  
  
“ _Stephen_.” Wong’s voice greets him as he rummages in cupboards, unannounced. He snatches his hand out, startled, and turns to find the man staring back at him from the doorway. He has his hands clasped behind his back, one eyebrow raised, and his mouth turned down in disapproval.  
  
Definitely the over-bearing father type, then.  
  
“Wong!” Stephen almost stammers, feeling caught in the act for the second day in a row. “I was just- _training_. Last night, yes. Dimensional threats, you know how it is.” He tries to play it off, his accompanying laugh high and nervous.  
  
“That would be why I took your 8pm class with no prior warning, then?” his companion’s cool tone responds, a silent smugness to having the upper hand.  
Now he really did feel like a guilty teenager. He had been expected to teach his late classes on shield casting, for his handful of students who needed just that extra push in order to succeed.  
  
“The sanctum?” he asks through a groan, realising he had unintentionally left it unguarded.  
  
“Clea and a few others from the advanced class were here in our absence.” Wong’s features soften, taking pity and not wanting to worry him.  
He feels a wave of relief, his best student being the logical choice to look after the place.   
  
“And I will refrain from commenting on your choice of companions as of late.” Wong tells him knowingly, the barest hint of an amused smile threatening to distort his careful composure.  
  
“Let me guess, you’re not angry, just disappointed?” Stephen rolls his eyes, but it’s all in jest.  
  
“Disappointed you feel the need to sneak around me like an angsty teenager, yes.” He smirks at still having the upper hand, even in their banter, and Stephen huffs in mock-annoyance.   
  
“Join me in the dining room, Stephen. I’ve made dinner.”  
  
He follows the guardian through into a room large enough to fit over ten people, but usually only hosts two. It’s like something from the Victorian era, fading chartreuse walls, deep mahogany furniture and golden candelabras. There are so many books in the sanctum that they spill into every room, the ones not stored in the floor-length glass cabinets covering most of the table. Several large and intricate vases are full of sizeable pastel-pink peonies, suspended using a spell because it’s far too much effort to get fresh ones from the florist every week.   
Wong, being quite an accomplished cook for someone who regularly orders out, has made a traditional Cantonese noodle dish with chicken and vegetables. Puffs of hot steam rise from the bowls, carrying with it a warm and comforting aroma. There was a glass jug of honey tea on the table, filled with ice and fresh lemon slices.   
  
Perhaps not-so-secretly, he enjoys these moments; the job can get incredibly lonely, and sitting down with Wong for a while is always on the right side of companionable.  
  
“I trust the meeting was successful?” he asks as they sit down together.  
Stephen fills him in between bites and sips, Wong taking it in quietly as the large grandfather clock chimes loudly in the corner.  
“Will we be expecting Mister Stark as a regular?” is the first thing he asks, and the sorcerer tries to pretend it wasn’t prompted by how much he had mentioned him. He wrinkles his nose.  
  
“I don’t think so. Perhaps a phone call to update me of the proceedings, but not much else.” He tries to keep the disappointment from showing on his face, reminds himself that it’s probably for the best.   
After all, attachment leads to weakness, and weakness becomes exploitable.  
  
When he finally puts head to pillow that night, his mind swims in a sea of a mechanical soft blue light. It’s cold to the touch, smooth icy metal and snow-covered peaks. He feels the pressure in his ribs, cracking with the weight, as he follows the pull of warm chestnut eyes that lure him to the depths of sleep.

 

* * *

   
  
Three days later, he finds Tony Stark on his doorstep with a brown paper bag of what he presumes is takeout.  
  
“You’re not the Buddhist lentil and bean type, are you?” he asks by way of greeting, brushing past him and into the hallway. He gives the cloak a high-five and an excited ‘ _hey buddy_ ’ as he passes it, and Wong gives Stephen a look that’s clearly an amused ‘I told you so’.  
  
“Depends on what the alternative is.” Stephen says as he watches Tony exit the sitting room he’s just walked into. He tries once again to find the kitchen, and steps into the store cupboard instead.   
  
“Cheeseboard.” He calls behind him as he finally gets the right door. The sorcerer follows him through, looking to see Wong excuse himself and head back into the library.  
  
Stephen takes the bag Tony brought, reviewing its contents and attempting to arrange it on the board. Fresh vegetables, dried fruits, jams, pickles, cheeses, the whole selection was practically screaming of a man buying every option in the hopes he gets one right. He can spot a few of his favourites, stuffed olives, fresh tomatoes and peppers, sea salt crackers, and thinks perhaps Tony has done quite alright. He presents it to the man in question once he’s done, who views it with approval. He takes a handful of the blueberries from the centre and pops them into his mouth, regarding the room with a vague interest.  
  
“Wine?” he asks, gesturing with his eyes to the vintage collection that’s growing over the kitchen counter. Tony wanders over, eyes inquisitive of his surroundings, gently thumbing the labels and humming in various degrees of approval. He hadn’t taken him for a sommelier, but there’s likely still a lot more he doesn’t know about Anthony Stark.  
He picks out a medium red Bordeaux, setting it down carefully and returning to his seat, giving Stephen the honours. He floats two glasses over from the open display shelf, waving the wine to pour itself into measures. He much prefers this to running the risk of smashing his hundred-dollar wine on their floor.  
  
“Find your decorator in the 1850s?” Tony says, observing the floral cream tiles illustrated in cornflower blue. He gives Stephen an incredulous side-glance as he’s handed, or rather floated, a crystalline wine glass teetering somewhere between intricate and hideous.  
  
“What, you don’t like the ridiculous chandeliers and overly-decorative fine china?” he pouts, feigning offense as he also returns to his seat.  
  
“David Dickinson would wet himself if he seen this place.” He says with a small laugh, tracing a finger down the blue and gold marbled vase on the table. It contained fresh lavender, heather and thistles, a bouquet of vibrant purples and wild mountain scent.  
  
“It is rather… antique.” He agrees, piling some cheese and pickle onto a cracker. He looks at Tony expectantly, knowing he must want something other than exchanging pleasantries, however nice the idea of a simple visit may be.  
  
“Alright then, I’ll get to the point.” He says, reading the question in Stephen’s gaze. “I need to gather data on the time stone.”   
  
It’s the very question he had been afraid of.  
  
“Tony, you know I-”  
  
“- _Can’t_ give up the stone, I gotcha. Here’s the thing, I don’t need the actual stone.” He says, as though he’d figured out a problem before it even came up. Likely has, knowing him.   
“Friday can take all the readings, all you’d need to do it use it.”  
  
He’s uncertain. The stone is unpredictable, wild and all-consuming. Its power is intoxicating, sweeter than wine drank in a summer haze. It could rip a man’s soul to pieces, cause him to thrash and tear at his chest until he finds bone and dig deeper still.  
  
And yet, by way of bitter irony, it’s their only hope.  
  
“…Alright, then.” Stephen agrees reluctantly, although remains troubled. “When do we start?”  
  
“This, first.” Tony waves his impatience off, content to just enjoy the moment for now.  
It isn’t until a while later, when Wong has also re-emerged to join them in conversation, that he realises it’s something he should enjoy more often.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re serious.” Stephen speaks, deadpan.   
He’s stood in his maroon training gear, shoulders bared. The cloak observes from the side-line, on standby and twitching in agitation where it floats. There’s no natural light in the underground training room, all sleek brushed metal that’s cold to the touch, accented with both warm and cool toned panel lights along the ceiling and walls. His thin cotton garments and exposed skin felt the lack of heat, but a sparring session would no doubt get his blood pumping.  
It was decided that they should have a proper training session, both for working together as a cohesive unit, and to assess capability. For the moment it was just himself, Tony and Peter, with a promise of some others joining them at a later time.  
  
“Totally. 100- wait, no, 96%” the boy nods, facing him down from across the room. He’s wearing his regular suit this time, minus the mask, the ‘iron spider’ suit in the lab for repairs after fighting someone called the ‘Green Goblin’. It makes his own villain names look rather intelligent in comparison.  
“If you’re sure, then by all means.” he hesitates, not wanting to hurt the kid, which is all the time Peter needs to take him by surprise.  
  
He fights and moves like a dancer, lithe strength, speed, and grace to his acrobatic prowess. Stephen struggles to keep him at bay in purely hand-to-hand, both landing few blows in favour of blocking the other. Stephen was built physically bigger, but Peter was immeasurably stronger and far faster. They break away after a good ten solid minutes, panting lightly and in no more pain than they started.  
  
“Quite impressive.” Is all he says, yet it’s enough to make Peter’s face light up with such pure joy he’s practically illuminating the room himself.  
  
“You’ve got to show me how to pull off that last block!” he pleads, and Stephen is somewhat glad he hasn’t enrolled in one of his classes at Kamar-Taj, else he’d have no time for the others.  
  
“Alright.” He simply agrees, trying not to become too fond of the excited grin this prompts from Peter.  
  
As an instructor, he’s fairly used to others observing him.   
But there’s something about the way Tony is looking at him now that makes him squirm. It’s like he’s under a microscope, being studied like a particularly interesting specimen.   
  
He refocuses on teaching Peter, but the heat of the other’s gaze never quite leaves him. Their short session comes to an end as 4PM rapidly approaches, Peter leaving in a blur of excuses, including but not limited to; Aunt May, eggs, Spanish homework, and midterms, finished with a generous helping of ‘thank-you’s thrown at the sorcerer.  
  
He looks to Tony once more, who’s finally given up watching them in favour of flicking through the holograms that float around him. He can identify two matching sets of recorded data on two separate screens. Heart rate, exertion, energy signatures, body scans… He was beginning to feel more than a little exposed the longer the day continued.  
  
“Busy?” he questions, voice sounding suddenly harsh as it reverberates in the silence of the room.  
  
“Chronically.” The genius agrees with a soft huff, tossing away a hologram that faded and replaced itself with another. “Fancy bringing out your pet rock then, Dear Doctor?” he asks, seemingly setting up the program that would take the readings, judging by the yellow and now empty green schematics he’s brought up.  
  
“If I must.” He musters a long-suffering sigh, the sound beginning to accompany most things that concern Tony in his life.  
  
He stretches his fingers out until he snags on a wince of pain, placing them over the amulet and revealing the gleaming peridot-like gem it contained within. Emerald green casts a soft glow on everything surrounding it, even with all the lights in the compound it shone the brightest.   
  
He simply summons a small amount of energy from it to start out with. It wisps through the air, curling and writhing like snakes among grass.  
“This is simply a small fraction of what the stones total output can reach.” He speaks aloud, walking Stark through the steps he was taking. “I can conjure it similar to how we utilise cosmic energy, but even I don’t truly know the depth of its power.”  
He speaks words of ancient verses long forgotten, sage green glowing bands snaking their way up his arms and forming energy tethers.  
“The space stone and the time stone are intrinsically linked, more so than any of the others. From what I can tell, it can fracture and bend time around it to create energy blasts.”  
He demonstrates, firing off bolts of energy at nearby targets.   
Even using as little power as he had, they still shatter into tiny pieces, once-sleek metal now rusted and turning to copper-coloured dust. Tony’s look of total, unmasked surprise would be almost comical if he didn’t feel so guilty for all-but destroying the training room he’s just been invited to.  
  
“Sorry.” He mumbles. “They’re- I can… pay for that…?” he cringes.  
  
He knows he absolutely _cannot_ pay for that.   
  
Tony simply quirks a fond but teasing smile, like he also knows, but continues anyway.   
“Sure. Each one costs around... sixty-thousand? And you destroyed…” he pauses for effect, counting visibly as he points to each one, “ _eight_ of them. So that’ll be roughly… four-hundred and eighty-thousand dollars. Cash or cheque?” Tony grins, wicked and playful.  
  
Stephen pales immediately at the numbers, the irony of it being something he’d have no problem throwing away before.  
He thinks of the loose change in his coat, totalling at around a dollar if he’s lucky.  
  
It must show on his face, because the other man chuckles and takes pity on him.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.” He laughs, like he found the mess more amusing than costly.  
He feels the lingering guilt shift, reaches a hand out and gently turns it counter-clockwise.   
Broken metal becomes whole again, assembling itself back into a complicated A.I. bot of Stark creation.  
  
The genius whistles in approval. “Well. You’d be handy on Saturday nights when Pete burns the popcorn. Thanks for saving me half a million.” He grins, but Stephen knows he’s impressed. It’s obvious by the sharp curiosity in his gaze and how distracted he becomes with the resulting readings.  
  
He thinks he rather likes the pleasant stroke to his ego it provides him, so he continues his performance for quite some time.  


* * *

  
  
“Got time for one more session?” Tony asks as he emerges from behind the workbench and saunters, as Tony often does, into the main training room. He’s finally satisfied with the data he had acquired, noting similarities with the mind stone, yet also vast differences he promises to elaborate on further once he’s had a chance to analyse it. Stephen offers further and continued assistance without thinking, mentally cursing himself for probably seeming over-eager. Tony had simply given him a curious smile in response, concealed and revealing nothing.  
  
“Time is never a concern of mine.” Stephen quirks one eyebrow.  
  
He’s apprehensive of fighting Tony. The man is a livewire, unpredictable and writhing with energy, but he can’t help wanting to feel how that electricity courses through his veins.  
  
“You want me to put on the suit?” he asks, finger paused, hovering over the light in his chest, but the question is far away. He’s testy. Unsure.  
Someone, perhaps even many people, have asked him this before, reduced the creator of empires to nothing but its base foundations.  
He wouldn’t be another.  
  
“No. I’ve seen Iron Man. Show me what Tony Stark is capable of.” He implores as he drops into position, beckoning him forward with shaking fingers.  
  
It was the correct response, the heat in his responding grin fuelled by pure, almost feral adrenaline. He’s propelled forward by the desire to be seen, the need to be _alive_ , connect and perhaps be understood.   
If Peter was the dancer, Tony became the melody, fast-paced and alive with static force.

He drops his shoulder as he rushes at him, attempting to use his smaller, sturdier form to knock the sorcerer off balance and onto the ground. Stephen acts quickly, braces and allows it to happen. Tony collides into him with considerable force, but he rolls with the impact, using the extra momentum to push Tony over him with his knees.

They’re back on their feet once more, circling one another like predators on the promise of flesh.  
He strikes out once the genius is within distance, uncoiling his fist like a viper to strike at his face. The genius puts his arms up to block, and Stephen responds by clasping his forearms and kicking out at the soft skin behind his kneecap.  
He tumbles to the floor, as much grace as a new-born fawn, but recovers quickly. To Strange’s surprise, he rounds his leg to sweep Stephen’s feet from under him.   
He moves in for the pin but is met with a refusal courtesy of a swift block from lithe calves. They’re more evenly matched than he would’ve guessed, but there is still much room for improvement.  
He stops assessing his opponent and starts testing, toying with exploiting any minor openings in his guard.  
  
“Who taught you to fight like that?” he asks between breaths, unable to keep his burning curiosity to himself.   
  
“I trained with two assassins and a walking bottle of super-soldier. I picked up a few tricks.” He huffs out, before managing to use Stephen’s distraction to land a hit hard enough to daze him.  
He tries for the take down once more, but the sorcerer manages to hook his leg around the other man’s, sending them both tumbling to the floor once again. Ribbons of red and gold snake their way over Tony’s wrists before he can wriggle his way out from underneath him, holding him in place as the sorcerer settles on all fours above him.  
  
“Do you yield?” He asks, smug, one hand placed beside his face as he observes him intently, like a lamp over a pinned butterfly.  
  
“You dirty cheater!” Tony laughs up at him, hazel irises dark and wide from under his lashes.  
Stephen swallows, takes in just how close they are. Just a few more inches is all it would take, his lips look soft and inviting beneath him, if he could _just_ -  
  
The door slams open, jerking him upwards with a fright and prompting a soft ‘ _oof_ ’ from Tony as all the sorcerer’s weight settles on his stomach.  
  
“Realised I left my backpack in here! So I- I, um…”  
  
Peter is now standing in the doorway, now looking mildly uncomfortable and not even attempting to hide the surprise from his face.  
  
“ _This isn’t_ -!”  
“It’s _not_ what it-!”  
  
They both call out to try and rectify the situation simultaneously, but Peter has already retrieved his abandoned bag and is blurting out a chorus of _‘sorrysorrysorry!’_ as he flees from the room like Mindless Ones were hot on his trail.  
  
Stephen releases the other man’s wrists from the restraints, groaning as he sits back with his head in his hands.  
  
Tony, to his credit, also has the decency to look visibly embarrassed, a dusky rose tinting the tan of his ears and nose. It draws even more attention to what he had been considering doing, and he suddenly finds it unbearable to look at the small spattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose that he hadn’t noticed before.  
  
They wrap things up in slightly awkward motions, preparing to finally call it a day.  
  
“Coffee?” Strange asks the other sheepishly when he bumps shoulders with the smaller man.  
  
Tony simply bundles up his towel and throws it at him in response, suppressing a snort.  
  
  
He’s late back to the sanctum yet again, but this time opts for a portal straight into his bed, lest he face the knowing stares of his apparent overworked father. The cloak settles over him as sleep hits him hard.  
  
Perhaps he should give Wong a vacation.  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for semi-graphic descriptions of Stephen's emotional turmoil!
> 
> Story is definitely in motion now!

They’re in the sanctum when it happens.  
  
It’s not quite cheese boards with vintage wine and staying up whispering long into the night, but Stephen is settled into his usual reading chair with a large tome, while Tony shares the seat opposite. The fire crackles calmingly in the mantlepiece as the engineer creates schematics for what looks like a gauntlet exoskeleton, his defining azure holograms projected from a small metal cube that sits on the coffee table.   
He had already finished discussing his stone readings with the sorcerer about an hour previously, and for now is content to simply work in companionable silence so Stephen is on hand to answer any lingering questions.  
  
The skylight and upper-level are still partially unrepaired from Doctor Banner’s unexpected entrance, but the New York air had been less than a subtle breeze through the sanctum and left them mainly undisturbed.  
  
It had begun to pick up a little though, accompanied by an increasingly concerning mechanical hum, which became loud enough to prompt a shared glance between the two men.  
  
“You wouldn’t happen to be moving your hair right now, would you?” Tony asks him, unsure, hand paused over collected data.  
  
Stephen catches the loose strand in his peripheral vision, wavering with the picked-up wind, and frowns.  
  
“Not… at the moment, no.” he answers, voice low and cautious.  
  
He looks to his tea on the table, observes the way the clear cinnamon-coloured liquid almost vibrates within it, the tremors causing the china teacup to reverberate from the saucer it sat on.   
They both look up to the open sky above them, seeing newspapers and debris flutter past, disturbed by something.   
  
The sound of screaming is distant but still distinctive, the warped silhouettes of people fleeing seen through the patterned glass of the sanctum door.  
The commotion is growing louder, sirens blaring above the sound of car horns and scattered footsteps on concrete.  
  
Tony is making quick strides to the door before he’s out on the bustling streets, Stephen hot on his heels. A nearby woman falls to the ground in her haste to escape, and there’s no hesitation as Tony helps her to her feet again. She continues running once more, too consumed with fear to think of thanking him in the moment.   
A car screeches to a halt beside them, smashing its bumper off a nearby lamppost. The driver is dazed as he tumbles from the front seat, but ultimately sprints in the same direction as the others before they can check on him.  
  
“Might wanna put the time stone in your back pocket, Stephen.” Tony turns as he calls out to him, but quickly refocuses.  
  
“We _might_ wanna use it.” He calls after him, conjuring shields around his wrists due to the alarming pace Tony was approaching the street corner unguarded.  
  
They can’t see what they’re up against, there’s wind and wreckage everywhere, the dust clouds they’ve whipped up choking and blinding.   
  
“Friday, evac anyone south of 43 rd Street and notify first responders.” He hears Tony bark to his A.I, barely detecting the affirmative ‘will do’ in her signature Irish twang over the wailing of the wind.  
  
He moves his hands in an intricate pattern, letting loose the Winds of Watoomb and holding them until it clears the surrounding air.  
  
Tony looks back at him, astounded, and he follows up his display of power with a provocative wink. Amusement quirks the billionaire’s lips to the side in long-suffering disbelief, but they don’t have time for much else.  
  
There’s a beam of blue light like you would expect out of the depths of Star Trek, before they’re faced with what appears to be two extra-terrestrials.   
  
A large brute stands to the left of him, reptilian faced with tusks and hulking muscles, hardened scaly skin akin to a monstrous lizard. He wields a metallic hammer that seems bigger than a man with the utmost of ease, his grip menacing as he pounds it in his large clawed hands.  
  
The other on the right is about the size of an average human man, perhaps slightly taller. He has white receding hair and a wrinkled face of ashen grey that suggested an advanced age. His facial structure was missing a nose in the middle of two wide-set clouded beady eyes, and his ears tapered into elven points. Steepled, his slender long fingers were adorned with rings that matched the ornate gold and black leather robes he wore, like embellished spider legs.  
  
“Hear me, and rejoice, for you are about to die at the hands of the Children of Thanos.” He finally speaks, in a voice that heralded doom. The brute beside him only grunts something intelligible, before he’s continuing.   
“Be thankful, that your meaningless lives are now contributing to the-”  
  
“-I’m sorry, but the Earth is _closed_ today. You better pack it up and _get_ out of here.”  
Stephen turns, displeased, wondering what on Earth must be going through the inventor’s mind. He knows of his penchant for quips, but _surely_  he also knows there’s a time and place? Perhaps when they’re not currently being invaded by apparent followers of _Thanos?  
_  
“Stonekeeper.” The sorcerer gives a frown when his attention is forced back to his addresser, who seems mildly irritated at the interruption of his monologue. “Does this chattering animal speak for you?”  
  
He’s more entertained at Tony’s resulting indignant double-take than he thinks he ought to be at this moment.  
  
“Certainly not, I speak for myself.” He summons shields yet again, moves to stand in front of Tony, who was still clad in some kind of plain black running gear.  
“I am the Sorcerer Supreme, and you are trespassing in this city and on my planet-”  
  
“He means _‘get lost’_ , Squidward.” Tony is biting out before Stephen can finish.   
  
He closes his eyes and sighs audibly. He really must hand it to the other’s impeccable sense of timing and wit to piss off two extra-terrestrials in a mere few sentences.  
  
The greying alien, apparently fed up with his tactic of ‘reasoning’, speaks something to his larger grunt. It only nods obediently, before barrelling towards them.  
  
The sight of it alone makes him wish Doctor Banner had remained in New York with them, because the Hulk seemed like a far better match for this living equivalent of a freight train sprinting towards them.  
  
Suddenly Tony is by his side once more, pushing forward and tugging on the strings of his jumpsuit. It pulls tight to his body, and Stephen finds small mercies that he’s too distracted by their impending doom to be able to focus on the toned figure it reveals. The seamless black under-suit is veined with glowing lines of blue that trace along his torso and thighs, ending with luminous rings of gathered light.  
  
It’s the first time he’s seen it, especially up this close, and he finds himself quickly mesmerised by the way the suit of armour begins to creep over the fabric, flowing like intricate liquid mercury.  
  
He keeps watch as Tony absorbs the force of the blow with a conjured shield of his own, dealing a retaliating punch hard enough it would likely kill a man on impact. He’s moving back slightly, before four curved metallic c-shaped weapons are emerging from the back of the armour. They float serenely next to him, letting loose a deadly charge seconds after the other.   
It hits the being with enough force to send him flying back the distance he had travelled, only to be effortlessly, and perhaps carelessly, flicked out of the way by his companion, as one would swat an insect.  
Stephen dislikes the prospect of this.  
  
“You’ve been holding out on me.” He remarks, regarding the inventor with a look of approval.   
He knows the designs have always been futuristic, remembers reading the morning paper in his penthouse about the new ‘Iron Man’ many years ago, but the sleek metallic form that encases him now is nothing short of breath-taking.  
  
“You like it?” he answers, preening. “I call it the Bleeding Edge. It’s nanotech, a little something I-”  
  
But that’s all he hears as Tony is suddenly catapulted upwards from a pillar of dirt, leaving just him.  
  
He worries for the genius absentmindedly, but this is a man who took down the Ten Rings single-handedly and survived flying a nuke into the vacuum of space. He can handle a little rough-and-tumble just fine.  
  
For now though, the more pressing matter is the unearthed sidewalk trees being hurtled towards him.  
  
The Shield of the Seraphim he summons to counter it easily blocks their path.  
  
He’s working on another spell as a nearby car is being thrown at him, he doesn’t know if he can bring up another shield in time but then, there’s a blur of shimmering red to his left and Tony is ripping past him to block its path with a repulsor from his palm.  
  
“You’ve gotta get that stone out of here, now!” he says, the buzz of his voice through the helmet mechanical yet still familiar.  
  
“And leave you here? Not likely.” He refuses, much to Tony’s irritation.  
  
“Stephen, I swear to-” is all he manages before he’s hit by another unseen weapon, throwing him much farther than Strange’s eye can follow.   
The larger monster lumbers after him, and being split up is not the ideal situation, but he has to keep track of the brains of this operation.  
  
Bricks are sharpened into deadly cones that fly towards him, but he manages to catch them all in a portal. He returns them promptly to his generous sender, who tries to use a nearby abandoned car to shield himself.   
All but one of the cones are deflected, the single remaining brick grazes the side of his attacker’s head and prompts out a hiss of pain. The now oozing gash on his temple only serves to make him angrier, and he bursts one of the nearby hydrants.   
  
Stephen deflects the water, before summoning a single Crimson Band of Cyttorak, wrapping it around the other to bind him.  
  
He realises perhaps a little too late that the creature is using the leverage to propel itself towards him, and they collide.  
He lets out a startled yelp of pain, before he can retaliate he’s been bound upside down using the bricks of the wall. He struggles as best he can, but they hold him fast.  
  
“Your powers are quaint. You must be popular with the children.” He says, cruel and mocking, reaching for the eye.   
Upon contact it burns bright in his hand, an unpleasant smell accompanying the audible sizzling of his wrinkled grey flesh.  
  
“ _Minion_ of Thanos, was it? It’s a simple _children’s_ spell, but you’ll find it quite unbreakable.” He smirks, but it simply angers the alien further.  
  
“Then I’ll take it off your corpse!” He screeches in response, voice cracking with displeasure.  
  
He’s grabbed by the lapels and thrown downwards, back cracking off a parked van as he crumples to the floor. Pain is searing in his torso as he rolls to his knees, and there’s blood trickling from a new wound on his head. The cloak helps to prop him up as he attempts to call upon the power of the stone.   
  
Cables burst forth from the concrete to snake around his wrists, pulling his weight down to the ground and breaking the tethering bands around his wrists and forearms. He feels another slithering up his body, squeezing at his waist and ribcage as it wraps tightly around his neck. He gives a cut-off whimper as the air is suddenly restricted from his lungs, watching helplessly as the alien floats down to him.  
  
“You’ll find- removing a- dead man’s spell… _troublesome._ ” he wheezes out as best he can, but the only answer he received was the tightening of the cables that bound him.  
  
“You’ll only wish you were dead.” And Stephen doesn’t like the look of the manic grin he’s met with to accompany the words.

The last thing he wonders is if Tony and the others will be able to stop the Earth’s impending doom. He sees brilliant red and gold not too far from him, circling and fighting the other monstrous alien, and wishes his last time seeing him could’ve been without the suit.

He settles, because it’s beautiful either way, before his eyes are rolling back into the darkness of his skull.  


* * *

  
He gives a soft groan as he comes to, hissing at the peach bruising on his neck and general all-over ache that complimented the throbbing in his head. He’s suspended on his back, hands bound to his sides by some invisible force.   
  
He takes in his flipped surroundings upside-down, nothing but metal constructs around a singular walkway.   
There are dozens of crystalline glass needles floating around him, likely what he was to be tortured with, menacingly pointed and refracting the dim blue light of the cosmos they travel through.  
His captor is just up ahead, observing him with the kind of quiet distaste one would reserve for a fascinating yet grotesque creature.  
  
“In all the time I have served Thanos, I have never failed him.” He begins, a kind of eerie calm to his tone.   
“If I were to reach our rendezvous on Titan with the time stone still attached to your… vaguely _irritating_ person, there would be… _Judgement_.”  
  
He sucks in a startled breath as the needles draw closer, flinching only slightly when he feels the first sting of entry.  
  
“Give me.”   
  
They dig deeper, pain flaring along every sense, every cell that dwelled within him. He lets out the barest of whimpers as he exhales, hoping the sound was muffled by his clenched jaw.   
  
“The stone.”   
  
He aims his needles at the Eye of Agamotto. It repels them, not through its own magic, but through his. The Eye cannot be taken, only given freely by the one who possesses it.  
  
The crystal needles push in deeper still, a current of fire and ice and electricity ringing and burning through his nerve endings and leaving him dizzy with agony. They push at his temples and through the hollows of his cheeks, grazing down his jaw and prodding at his throat. It ignites flare after flare of torment within him, blinding his senses and causing him to stifle a cry.  
They’re pushing at his hands now and he feels sick, bile rising within him as he’s reminded of the crunch of bones that shattered his career in more ways than one.   
  
He finally screams, then.   
  
A guttural howl that echoes out around them as he gasps in breath.  
  
“Painful, aren’t they?” The being smiles cruelly at him, eyes hardened and sadistic as though he takes pleasure from Stephen’s pain.   
“They were originally designed for microsurgery. And any one of them could end your life in an instant, were I so inclined.” His tone is almost gleeful, like he delights in the knowledge.  
  
The needles are insistent, pushing their way through his clothes as though they were butter, digging into the soft flesh of his exposed stomach. They pierce through the underside of his thighs, the spaces between his ribs, until they find vulnerable nerve clusters and nudge at his lungs. He screams again, voice ripping from his throat, hoarse and scratching, but he holds the alien’s gaze in the only way he has left to defy him.   
His impudence seems to amuse rather than anger the being, before the needles at his throat and face are waved away and relocating elsewhere. He feels one penetrate his lower back, perforating his spine. It spreads its torment through the lumbar nerves, pain radiating down his legs as he wails in unpleasant surprise.  
  
Long fingers begin to trail over his throat, warm and smooth instead of cold and sharp, spider’s limbs enclosing around his windpipe as the alien’s glassy, cold eyes stare back into his.  
He’s oddly grateful for being held in place, because he knows the adrenaline that mingled with the growing fear he harboured would cause his body to tremble.  
  
“Your tolerance is admirable, sorcerer.” He whispers, voice mere inches from his ear. “But everyone has their limits, has an end to what they are. For instance, I operate in information, gaining influence and seeding… _discord_.” The hands at his throat tip his jaw backwards, the flesh dangerously exposed, so he’s left to stare helplessly at the holographic liquid display of the stars they’re travelling through. “I cannot tear into a man’s heart and see what makes them weak, or what makes them strong. I have to rely only on my words… But _what_ _words_ they are.”   
Their close proximity was alarming, as an unknown force crept silently around the edges of his mind, watching.   
  
Waiting.  
  
“Sweet whispers of secret fears… Tell me, Doctor. Won’t you tell the Ebony Maw all the mysteries you have hidden in your mind?”   
Strange gargles an indecipherable noise, though through pain or as a response he’s not sure.  
  
The Eye of Agamotto begins to glow a faltering green, questioning yet obedient, as a crystal needle pushes its way into enchanted metal.  
  
“Show me your despair, Stephen Strange. Show me how to break you.” 

 

* * *

 

 

The warmth of the evening sun on his face is the first thing he feels, before he’s opening his eyes to the lake on his childhood family farm.   
The surface is clear and glossy, reflecting the gentle pastel tones of the pink and soft orange sky.  
  
Colours he remembers all too well.  
  
They were always well off, his family, though this was perhaps not something he realised at the time.   
Eugene and Beverly Strange were land owners, their house stood proudly on profitable Nebraskan land, warm wood panelling flanked by trees of strong cottonwood.  
  
His remembers that his parents have left on vacation, perhaps to Philadelphia or Seattle or someplace else they often visited when summer days started to get longer.  
As the oldest, it left him the responsible one. Although he resents it, hates having to look after his two younger siblings when there are far better things he wants to be doing with is time. He’s nineteen, his friends from University so far away now that he’s returned home for his Summer break. He’s proud, almost embarrassingly so, already on the cusp of earning his MD–PhD and one of the world’s youngest to ever do so.  
  
“Stephen!” a girl’s voice calls his name, wet and drowning in panic, snapping him from his thoughts. “ _Help!_ I can’t- the pain, I-”

“ _Donna!_ ” he hears his own voice call out, screaming after her, although no sound escapes his own throat.  
  
He catches a glimpse of himself, so young, face smooth and his hair brushed back in soft black curls. He watches himself from afar as the young buy runs, feet bare and wearing nothing but loose dark grey joggers with a threadbare white t-shirt. The air burns in his lungs as adrenaline and fear push him forward like a man possessed.   
  
There’s no hesitation as he dives into the lake, and Stephen can still recall how frigid the water was despite reflecting the setting midday sun.  
  
He watches himself like a ghost, pulling the girl’s limp body ashore and laying her gently on the grassy bank. Her long tawny brown hair is dark with water and covered in the sand of the bank, her blue eyes usually so full of life are forever suspended wide and fearful.  
  
He calls her name over and over, his voice cracking with each attempt. He shakes her shoulders, feels her throat and wrists for any sign of life. He’s desperate as he clasps one hand over the other and begins to press on her chest, crying. Begging for even _one_ sign that she could be saved.  
  
He knows he is already too late.  
  
Donna. His baby sister.   
  
She wore clothes of sunshine yellow and baby-blue denim and always had her long hair in loose curls that stretched to her lower spine. She loved to pester him, especially while he was studying, talking about his ‘handsome’ University friends. Always hogging the communal TV watching her annoying teenage love dramas.  
She listened to a different pop group every month on her peach-pink cassette player, and still collected colourful stuffed Care Bears despite being fourteen.   
Her friends fawned over Stephen when they stayed for a weekend, giggling to themselves around the dining table when he made them lemon pancakes for breakfast. When they left he had to spend an hour in the shower trying to scrub off the glittery lilac nail polish from his abused fingernails.  
He cared for her when she injured her leg on her first pair of roller-skates, and he found so much satisfaction in it he thought it might become something he could be passionate about.   
  
Her death, in hindsight, is what made him bitter.   
  
A patient he couldn’t save before he’s even stepping into surgery.  
  
He’s still watching himself performing compressions through tears, thinking of her smile as the scene fades to nothing.

∙

He’s coming to once again, and everything he sees is bathed in a honeyed light that verged on golden. He recognises the mesh patterns on the windows and intricate pillar carvings as from Kamar-Taj, sees the decorative brass jugs and gong and the pots of tea on low-standing tables.  
  
The Ancient One stands impossibly before him, back turned. She wears navy blue robes, her favourite colour of saffron yellow contrasting on her oddly symmetrical undergarments.

“Stephen. Back from training so soon?” she hums as she turns to face him, her voice melodic, but there’s a curiosity in her gaze. She assesses the way he’s dressed, takes in the cloak fluttering serenely around his shoulders and the continuous eerie glow of the amulet around his neck.

“No…” he whispers, words finally coming to him. “You- You’re _dead_. I watched you fall, I- this can’t be real.” He breathes.   
  
He doesn’t know why or even how he’s here, feels like he’s on the verge of remembering something crucial but it remains frustratingly just out of his reach.

Understanding softens her features then, somehow knowing without words, just as she always had.

“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t. Who’s to say what’s real for you and what is for me?”  
Her riddles, something that always frustrated him to no end, provide a painful lump in his throat that swallowing won’t get rid of.

“You look well, Stephen.” She smiles, although it’s tight. “Your magic is quite magnificent now.”  
  
The compliment throws him.

“I learned from the best.” He chuckles weakly, but the words catch around the obstruction still present in his throat.   
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t save you.” He says softly, hangs his head off to the side as it’s suddenly too difficult to continue looking her in the eye.

“You have nothing to apologise for. I went willingly, and I knew my end.” She lifts his head once again, the end of her fan solid on his chin. “But I know this is not yours.”

“I can’t do this alone.” He confesses, and she presses one of her cool, slender hands over his.

“Oh, Stephen. You’re not alone. Perhaps one day, you’ll realise that you never truly were.”

∙

He can still feel the warmth of her fingers as he’s flung from future to past, history into eternity.   
  
He opens the letter he received about his father’s death, so soon after Donna’s, along with the last one he received for his brother Victor’s car accident that left him in a coma.   
He’ll never wake up, he knows this well enough as he holds his mother’s frail hand in a cold hospital room as she takes her last breath.  
  
In between all of it he experiences his own car crash. Again, and again, and _again_ , until he’s memorised the event down to every painful second. Calculated every possible way he could’ve avoided it, caught the angle of the night rain and every letter that spreads over signposts.  
  
Millions of times, he’s ripped apart from the inside out. He doesn’t have the time to wonder between being skewered, crushed and disintegrated, of which death Dormammu or Thanos or Nightmare or Mephisto were responsible for.   
  
Past or present, they blend into an endless chorus of screaming, a fractured mosaic of dust and bloodshed.    
  
He’s slaughtered more times than his eidetic memory can even keep track of, gutted again and again like fresh fish on a line.   
  
He doesn’t know why. Wonders if there’s ever an end to this torment.  
  
Perhaps he’s being punished, being made to repent for the lives he’s inadvertently ruined through ignorance and fear.  
  
He wishes it would stop, but of course, his wishes fall upon deaf ears.

∙

When he opens his eyes this time, it’s to a place he’s never seen. Some kind of remote penthouse, with floor-length windows that offer coastal ocean views that stretch for miles. Everything is sleek and white modern luxury.   
There’s an abundance of plants, orchids and bromeliads in full bloom on countertops and windowsills, peperomia and spider-plants that trail down corners and over pristine bookshelves that overspill with ancient volumes.

“Oh, there you are. Did we run out of honey chai again?” a familiar voice calls out to him softly.  
  
He can hardly believe what he’s met with once he spins around.  
  
Because it’s Tony Stark, dressed in a worn charcoal cotton long-sleeved tee and slightly-too-big red flannel pyjama bottoms.   
His hair is greying, wild and sticking up in mussed short curls that make his heart twinge painfully. His signature goatee still remains, though it’s tinted a mature slate silver, rather than black.   
  
He’s struck almost violently by the image, of want and need for the inventor so tender and soft.   
  
Tony smiles sleepily at him, absent of worry and fatigue, sets his coffee down on a table as he approaches. He’s aged with stars and grace, just as Stephen would’ve expected him to.

“I tell him to drink the lemon ginger, but you know it’s Wong’s favourite. I think Peter drinks it when you aren’t looking, too.”

He looks so absurdly happy as he moves to stand in front of him, runs his hands down Stephen’s sides like the night tide soothes the aches of the beach, leaning up to kiss him.   
The sorcerer freezes in surprise at the gentle press of lips, but Tony’s touch is nothing but gentle and loving and he’s soon relaxing into it despite himself.   
  
It’s a practiced motion, something done thousands upon thousands of times. It lifts a terrible weight from him, feels like a warm blanket next to a roaring fire, the evening sun by a still lake.   
  
Safe.   
  
Like coming home.   
  
Like…  
  
“ _Tony_ …” he murmurs into soft rose-petal lips, eyes fluttering closed, but he’s not really sure what he’s hoping for. He doesn’t dare to.

“Stephen? Is something wrong?” Tony frowns as he laces their fingers together, hands rough and calloused from too much time in the workshop, brushing gently over the scars of his own.

“No, I’m… I’m fine.”   
  
Doctor Stephen Strange has never considered himself a man with much self-restraint by any means, so he can hardly be blamed for placing his trembling hands on Tony’s face and pulling him in for a deeper kiss.   
It was Tony’s turn to be momentarily surprised as he swallows a soft ‘mmf’, although he returns the kiss with much enthusiasm.   
  
The sorcerer strokes both thumbs over his strong cheekbones, marvelling at how soft and pliant it makes him as he all but melts into the kiss.

Tony pulls away after moaning slightly, a flush to his cheeks and dazed, wondrous look in his eyes.

“What’s gotten into you today?” he laughs, a sound pure and clean, mock-scandalised.  
  
He takes his hands once more and leads them to the couch, settling down close together. He regards him with curiosity, a suspicion that was inquisitive rather than malicious.

Stephen catches a figure on the other couch, a thick textbook flat over his chest and a red mask discarded on the floor beside him. He realises with a startled breath that it’s Peter, dozing quietly with the cloak wrapped protectively over him.  
His own cloak ripples, as though it’s just as confused as him. The fact that there are two means whatever version of himself that fits into this future must also be around somewhere.  
  
He panics as he realises Tony has also naturally come to the same conclusion, holding his breath as he waits for his inevitable reaction.  
  
But there’s none, only hands beginning to card gently through his salt-and-pepper hair and a tender, almost pained look in the genius’ deep brown eyes.

“You’re not here yet, Stephen.” Tony says, as though this is something he has figured out.  
  
Soft sax played through the room, subdued and distant. Through this foreign place that felt so much like home.

“Wake up for me. Please.” Tony whispers to him, a knowing look in his eyes, kissing both his eyelids gently. Stephen places a quivering hand over the genius’ cheek one last time, who places his own atop it and presses a chaste kiss to the space between his thumb and wrist.   
  
Everything started to fade around him as he closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“-ange! Strange, wake up! Stephen, _please_ -”  
  
When he opens his eyes again, it’s to a different Tony _.  
His _ Tony.   
  
Younger by comparison, but still as undeniably marvellous, face pained and worried with wide amber eyes glassy with concern. His head is being propped up on the inventors crimson armoured knees, the rest of his body on cold steel as their location begins to return to him.   
  
The ship. His kidnap.   
  
The time stone.   
  
He whips a hand up to clutch worriedly at his chest, but it remains safely within the eye’s locket, glowing green no longer.   
  
Ebony Maw is nowhere to be seen.   
  
Peter and his cloak are both hovering anxiously over Stark’s shoulder.   
  
“We alright?” the genius asks, his expression complex and unreadable.  
  
A time fracture, is what the only explanation could be. Something he very nearly could have been trapped in for all of eternity.   
Saved by who else but Tony Stark, in more ways than one.  
  
He looks to his companions, sits up as the cloak returns rather excitedly to his shoulders and squeezes its fabric briefly around him. A hug.

“I am now.” He says with a fresh breath of relief, and Tony smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought of this chapter!   
> I love to read all your feedback, it means the world to me!♡

**Author's Note:**

> I've adored these two since before I can remember, and so seeing my beloved awesome facial hair bros sharing screen-time was a dream come true!
> 
> If you like this, please comment or leave kudos, I consume them for fuel to keep me motivated to write more! :)


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